


Fidēlis/Fealty

by Faline (rubberbisquit)



Series: Tempus [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-03-23
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-17 05:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 49,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubberbisquit/pseuds/Faline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After helping her friend unwittingly break the Chantry's rules, Solona Amell is sent to Ostagar as penitence. She survives the betrayal of the King's Army and makes it back to the Tower to find it in shambles and the quiet templar that she's longed for in the middle of a mental breakdown. She must rebuild, both the Tower and Cullen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Into the Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a direct prequel to my DragoneAge: 2 fic Of Heroes and Champions. In that story Elissa Cousland is chosen by Duncan to join the Grey Wardens and f!Amell becomes the Origin that never happens. In Of Heroes and Champions she's called to Kirkwall to help and meets a figure from her past. This is the story of Solona and Cullen and their love story which spans more than a decade.
> 
> There are some similarities between her story and the mage origin in DA:Origins however they are not the same.

  
**  
_Fidēlis/Fealty  
Part One: The Things That Make Us_   
**

_Chapter One  
An Origin That Never Happened_

The tall grass makes perfect cover for the ambush she’s about to spring. Beside her three kittens watch, and wait, while she surveys their pray. Hapless younger brothers and unsuspecting Mother. The oldest Amell child waits, breath held, until she sees the perfect moment to strike. She jumps from her cover as the twins fight over their play thing and the racket she makes frightens her mother awfully.

Little Lona shrieks in delight as Mother falls back and lands, hard, on the basket of food awaiting the break in field work that was sure to come soon. She is still giggling in delight, surrounded by her squad of attack kittens, when Mother turns her angry gaze at her. Her harmless prank has ruined the family mid day meal. Mother sometimes beats her for these surprise attacks but the sun is warm and the breeze is pleasant. Now Mother just shakes her head and dusts herself off. They are too far from the house to go back for more food and the family will just have to wait for dinner.

Blond curls streak out behind Lona as she runs back into the brush for cover. She has been playing this game for hours now and skittish Mother plays along. At six, she is fearless and predatory. She watches the world around her with eyes that catch many details. She fancies that one day she can be a mighty warrior. She will never be the wife of a farmer.

The last attack leaves much to be desired along the lines of surprise. Lona should have waited longer, she knows. But it’s so warm and lovely outside. She just wants to play. Mother doesn’t even look at her when she slinks back into the grass. The kittens are so soft. Perhaps they’ll want to stalk her. Her excited giggles draw her brothers into the grass.

This beautiful summer day with the sun beating down is the best day Lona can think of. When the scary men appear and start yelling at Mother she thinks that she can jump out and frighten them too for being so loud. They are starting to scare Mother. Lona will be a great warrior one day, she thinks.

Next to her, one of the twins gives a shout and draws the attention of Mother and the yelling men. Lona tells him to be quiet, that he’ll give away their location. The first twin starts screaming harder; the other joins in. Brothers are noisy and ruin _everything._

She’s turning to tell them to just be quiet and she’ll save the day when she smells the fire. It springs up around her so quickly she cannot react fast enough. It’s already on her and Lona starts crying herself with surprise. Her hand is on fire! Around her the grass starts to catch and the twins, not yet old enough to walk, are stuck. She is on fire but it doesn’t hurt, she realizes, so she reaches for one brother and then the other. Her touch turns their skin black.

She is six and she is _hurting_ her brothers. She cannot stop; she only knows that she has to help. Something must be done and she will be a brave fighter one day . . . she will protect her family against the bad men.

One twin has stopped crying and moving. Lona is still burning but she reaches for him again. The flames grow around her and it is too warm now, too nice. Her hand is still outstretched when she’s picked up under her arms and tossed free of the heat and the grass. Mother has saved her! Mother has come and gotten her and is now saving the twins. Lona watches the long fabric of Mother’s skirt as it catches fire as well.

This is the moment that Lona realizes that this is all her fault. The bad men, who have yelled at Mother and made her scared, are trying to push their way through the growing flames to help. They are too slow. Lona hears Mother scream; the sound draws on forever and makes her cry all the harder with confusion and panic.

Her hands burn on.

-!-

The sisters at the Chantry are nice. They are friendly and they tell her lovely stories about a lady in the heavens called Andraste. This sky lady is beautiful. Lona knows because she saw a sculpture and she thought the sky lady was the prettiest woman she’d ever seen. The sisters tell her that if she’s good she’ll be able to meet Andraste one day but for now, she has to behave.

She sits in her room most of the time, surrounded by buckets of water, the entire four weeks she stays at the Chantry.

She asks about the buckets, once, thinking that perhaps they should be warmed and she should have a bath; it’s been a long time and Lona really likes baths in warm water. The sisters smiled and told her that the buckets were there for her own protection.

Four weeks and one day after she arrived at the Chantry her bed accidently gets on fire somehow and learns that the water in the buckets is _very cold_. And that she is something that the sisters call a mage.

The men that come to take her away are very shiny and are very mean. They look at her with suspicion and Lona wonders why. They are very big and she is very small. The shiny men do not talk to her, even when she has a very good question. She wants to know about their swords and they draw them and point them at her when she reaches for one. After that they wrap a special piece of fabric around her hands. She feels as though she is covered in a blanket, though it’s just her hands that are covered. She doesn’t feel like she can breathe.

She feels fear for the first time in her life.

They make her walk for days. Many days with this special cloth binding her pass by and the shiny men are always watching her with their swords she so admires within reaching distance.

They take her to a place that is very tall and surrounded by water. She has never seen so much water in her life and it fascinates her. When she tries to dip her foot in, just to see if it’s as cold as those buckets in the Chantry, she is tied again, around her ankles, and put onto a boat.

It is another beautiful summer day. Despite being bound hand and foot, Lona appreciates the wonderful sunlight on her upturned face and the air that blows so strongly across the water. When they land she watches the water as long as possible as she’s led inside just to watch a flock of birds skim the surface and she smiles. The heavy doors of this new place, _Kinloch Hold_ one of the shiny men had said, slams behind her and Lona no longer sees the blue skies that have framed her childhood so far.


	2. Into the Tower

**_Fidēlis/Fealty_**  
Chapter Two

  
The mages and the templars at the tower keep her in relative seclusion for just over two years. Her days are framed through the morning and evening prayers; through her studies she reads the entire Chant of Light. Certain verses get stuck in her head for days at a time and she practices writing them down. She is under observation here. That’s what the sign on her door says, _Under Observation._ Lona didn’t understand, when she’d first arrived, exactly what that had meant, but as time had worn on she figured it out for the most part.

Under Observation meant that she was bad; might do something terrible. No one wants that, do they, Lona? The templars have watched her at every moment. She thinks that they must be strange, shining men indeed to spend so much time on one little girl.

She hasn’t felt the sunshine on her face since the day she arrived at the Tower.

Lona sees one mage more than the rest. He’s middle-aged and rather boring but he has a commanding presence when he enters her room. He stifles the world around her so that all she can see, and hear, is him. His name is Silas. Enchanter Silas with the boring voice and the _magnificent_ presence. The first thing he teaches her is how to read. The second thing he teaches her is how to control her emotions.

Sometimes the templars talk outside her door. It’s always late at night when she should be sleeping. _Magic exists to serve man._ She can never sleep when she’s running verses in her head. When she first arrived the templars talked mostly about tranquility. It was a foreign word to her. She asked Silas what it meant once and he told her not to worry. That being tranquil meant being at peace. She liked the way peace sounded.

 _My Creator, judge me whole: find me well within Your grace._ Lona doesn’t understand, exactly, what the words mean. She only knows that they mean something and that she needs to pay attention.

Outside her cell, the men stop talking about tranquility and start talking about training. Silas spends an entire fortnight working with her, teaching her how to control herself. The flames that took her family flicker gently in her palms when they’re done.

Silas gives her a week off and announces that the real training will begin soon. She is already eight, half way to being nine.

Silas brings her to see the shining man that is in charge, so she’s told. The man’s name is Greagoir, Knight-Commander Greagoir who controls the shining men and will be watching over her for the rest of her life. There is another mage in the room that Lona has met several times before: First Enchanter Irving. She’s never seen him look so worried, however. He almost brims with concern. For her, it seems.

When Greagoir speaks his words have no softness to them as he details the things that are expected of Lona now.

She is to obey her _teachers._

She is to obey the _templars._

She is to never kill anyone _ever again._

The Knight-Commander holds her arm steady and draws a blade across the skin there. She tries to squirm away but he holds tighter. Her blood is collected. The First Enchanter heals the cut with a wave of his hand and leads her down; down into the main halls of the tower.

There is a world in this tower that she has been previously ignorant of. Children her age run screaming through the halls only to be reprimanded. Older kids, showing the first signs of adulthood, gather in quiet corners. Some whisper. Some . . . are doing something completely different with their mouths and these too draw the wrath of Irving. She doesn’t understand their actions.

She doesn’t understand much of anything besides the feeling of everything being just too much. Too much movement and too much noise. She has never been around this many people in her life.

The First Enchanter leads her to a long room, curved with the tower, and full of beds. Beds on top of other beds, even. Each double bed has a trunk at each end of it. A handful of children, both boys and girls and all taller than she, gather at the far end, around a second door that leads back to another room. Irving pushes her towards the group and Lona can’t move for fear of the others. “Please.” She has said very little in her tenure here. This one word, a small plea, falls on deaf ears. Irving moves her onward.

“Where is Enchanter Mirna?” The children have not noticed their presence before but they do now. They scatter, revealing a woman mage sitting on the floor. A chill runs down Lona’s spine when she sees that this woman’s hands are also bound with the magical cloth that she was brought here with. She does not know the word for the fabric, but it takes away. The cloth leaves her small power unable to function.

It appears the same is true for the older mages too.

Irving leaves her side to assist the woman on the ground. She soon as she is free the woman casts a spell that halts the children who have _captured_ her in their paths. The woman, Lona supposes her name is probably Mirna, stands slowly and smiles warmly at her. As though she has not been held hostage by the cadre of children in the room.

“You must be Solona. My name is Enchanter Mirna.” The woman kneels down in front of Lona and brings them eye to eye. Her gaze is warm and it’s been a long time since Lona has had someone look at her this way. Something tugs at the back of her mind, a memory, of a flowing skirt and flames. Mirna grabs her hand and pulls Lona back to the present. “Welcome to the Apprentice Quarters. You’re officially on your way to becoming a real mage now.”


	3. Friend

****

  
_Fidēlis/Fealty  
Chapter Three_   


When she’s ten Lona makes her first real friend.

It has become tradition, in her dormitory, for a few of the elder boy mages to practice their oil slick spells on her. In her hair, to be specific. Most days she can get out the mess before the first class of the day but it only takes once for her to step too close to a torch. The boys are still snickering when she feels her world go up in flames. Their laughter turns to horror and the only thing she can think to do is run.

Her hair burns. It smells acrid to her, like her practice in the training room when she’s messed up yet again and scorched the practice mats. There is no enchanter here to put the fire out though and she’s reaching up with her hands to try and smother the flames when a wave of water impacts her face.

She’s left sputtering and on the floor, because honestly there’s no way she would have remained upright after that deluge. She’s sitting in a puddle, her hair still slightly smoking, and thinking of the worst spell she knows for the boys that are still staring in shock.

Someone beats her to it though and she watches in amusement as a small group of wasps descends upon the group and they run, screaming, from the room. Looking around for her savior she sees a slight boy with a cocky smile standing in the doorway.

His name is Jowan. When he takes her red and hurting face in his hands she can feel the slight hum of his magic healing her.

Her hair remains short after that and the faint scars at the base of her neck never really go away. The boys leave her alone and she is rarely seen away from Jowan’s side. Then, at least.

When the other apprentices laugh and whisper behind her back, suggesting that she’s not fit for training and should be made Tranquil, he pulls her to his side and doesn’t let go. Oh, she understands, now, what this tranquility is. When she mutters that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, when she’s blown up another set of practice mats on accident, Jowan is the one that whispers _NO! You’re my family now and I won’t be abandoned again._

He doesn’t talk about where he comes from. She doesn’t need to say anything because he already knows.

-!-

She starts to notice the older boys again, when she’s nearing her fifteenth birthday. Lona no longer worries about the tricks they’ve played for six years. Something inside of her feels drawn to them. It’s tantalizing; the boys draw her attention and distract her. The apprentices have long since been split into separate quarters by sex even though there’s only a dozen or so of them. The Templars watch even closer and their guards have been doubled. She hears the other girls whispering, in the dark of night in bed, about this boy and that and Lona thinks this is what it would be like to have friends. Giggling and sharing stories. She has nothing to share though and nothing is really shared with her because of it.

Inevitably, she is always excluded. The oldest among them, Neria, is an all-knowing beacon of the wonders of their blossoming sexuality. Lona listens as she recounts, almost nightly, the different things the boys are willing to give with the right incentive and it makes her blush fiercely. Neria calls her out one evening.

“Little Lona, who have you been meeting in the dark?” The other girls titter and Lona drops the robe that she has been folding in surprise. This is the first time the elf has asked her a question since they were smaller and Neria needed to borrow a quill.

She’s about to respond when Neria speaks again, “No one, to be sure. You’re too caught up in your books. Even with a boy hounding your every step you never think of becoming a _woman_.” The way the other speaks, Lona wants to crawl under her covers and hide. She realizes that sexuality can be a weapon: used against boys to further one’s own means and used against other girls to create a hierarchy. Lona does spend a lot of time studying and she’s read about social systems like this.

She says nothing and goes back to folding her robes.

When she sees Jowan next, she asks him about it. About sex. The look of shock on his face makes her burst with laughter. Jowan can’t answer her questions though. Delicately, he explains that he never, has never, that is to say-

“Go talk to Mirna or something. By Andraste’s knickers you’re ridiculous.”

Andraste would have had an easier time of it, Lona thinks. Just marry the Maker and be done with it. She probably never felt this twist in her stomach when one of the older boys fixed her with a look. Lona prays for the wisdom and patience of Andraste and reads the entire Chant of Light to calm her flustered nerves. She comes to a conclusion through her studies. The Maker put these feelings in her; they have to be holy. Perhaps Andraste did feel this way, once. Perhaps-

Once she’s made up her mind about the necessity of sex, Lona throws herself head long into the search for a partner to take away the burn inside of her. She starts with one of the other girls. Felice is not much older than her and also enjoys books so one day in the library Lona corners her and asks if she’ll help her out. Felice laughs at her.

“You’re going about this the wrong way.”

Lona just stares at her in confusion.

Felice sighs and rubs her forehead with one hand. “I’m a girl.” Her tone suggests that perhaps Lona needs to do a little more research, but then she understands.

“Oh, I know. I just- I don’t know any boys and you seem like you’re smart too and I thought maybe you could help me find someone and tell me what to do.” Her words come out in a rush and she can feel her face burning. This shouldn’t be so difficult.

Felice doesn’t laugh this time. She eyes the room and nods to herself before pointing across at an apprentice bent over a book. “Go talk to Shuul. I know he’s an elf but he’s friendly and I can tell you from experience he knows what he’s doing.”

Lona is pretty sure she can’t be any redder in the face but she follows Felice’s advice. Shuul is indeed friendly. And he certainly knows what he’s doing. He calls her by her full name and takes her in a quiet corner of the library that night. Despite her inexperience she can tell that he enjoys himself too and it fills her with a sense of accomplishment.

When she returns to the dorm room that night the girls are up and tittering still. Felice sees her come in and gives a triumphant cry, telling the others that Lona has finally grown up.

That night she joins their conversation and she’s finally someone other than the family-killer; the loose cannon. She becomes friend and confidant.


	4. The First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beginning of Part Two: Widows in Ferelden

  
_**Part Two: Widows in Ferelden**  
Chapter Four_   


  
_**Part Two: Widows in Ferelden**  
Chapter Four_   


The last fading rays of the sun are filtering through the library windows when Solana leans back and rubs a tired hand over her eyes. She’s been reading about the caste system of the dwarven kingdom. It’s fascinating, but tedious. Nothing but a few dusty reports from a court appointed explorer hundreds of years ago. The unilateral descent system is certainly one of a kind on the continent. She makes a note on her parchment about the page she’s stopped on and stands. Her back and shoulders pop as she stretches slowly and works out the kinks from her spine.

Behind her she can hear a templar shifting their weight and she glances back. A soft smile flits across her face as she recognizes Cullen. He ties his sash a little differently making him easy to identify despite the helm. Given the time, though, she knows that it would be him. He’s always here at this time of the day; in that lull between classes and dinner. She thinks that their soft friendship is one of the best part about her days, especially when they’re here in the library. For a templar he’s surprisingly intelligent and well versed in the world outside the Tower. More than once she’s asked his opinion on things she’s studying and had it given freely.

“Good afternoon, Ser Cullen. I didn’t hear you come in.” She sounds sincere, and she is, when she stands in front of him. He takes off his helm, even though he’s not really supposed to. With the many conversations they’ve engaged in, she’d finally admitted that it was hard to understand him through the thing about a month ago. Now, any time they talk, he takes it off. He reaches up with his free hand and runs it over the top of his head. She watches the fingers as they ruffle the red hair and wonders if it’s as soft as it looks.

“You were . . . absorbed.” As always, there’s hesitation in his words. Initially, when she’s first spoken to him, she hadn’t understood the reason. However, she’s learned. The light brown of his gaze flickers down her body. He does this frequently, she notices, and is most likely not aware of it. Solona has made it an art form to read the subtle messages another person sends out with their body.

Her research indicates that Cullen finds her attractive.

That’s all right with her; she likes the way he looks too. Both of them are adults, for the most part, and there’s nothing unhealthy with attraction. That’s something else she’s learned in her studies. She’s come to learn that the things the Maker creates are perfect; exactly the way they should be. Only man corrupts what the Maker has given them. Only the rules of man say that it would be wrong, _bad_ , for her to lie with the templar. That is to say- that they shouldn’t- She pushes away the faint guilt that flares up at the thought.

“But, of course. You know me; once I start reading it’s hard to stop.” The smile he gives her makes familiar butterflies appear in her stomach. He really is a handsome man. She watches his eyes again, looking for another telling sign that he desires her. Perhaps-

“I do. Know you, that is. You’re going to be late for dinner if you don’t hurry.” His final words break her concentration and she blinks as she looks away. He always sounds like he’s in a rush to get somewhere at the end of their conversations. It makes her feel like maybe she’s not reading him right, that he really doesn’t like her. At least, not in the way she thinks about him. It feels like he’s just being polite.

She turns to go but his gauntlet on her arm stops her in her tracks. “Don’t forget your notes. You might want to study later.” In her head, she supplies the _‘in bed’_ that he’s probably leaving off. Cullen’s smile is warm and those butterflies are back. Solona feels her cheeks heating up under his eyes and when he lets go she slips out of the room before letting go of her breath.

The halls are empty, for the most part. She feels the eyes of some of the other templars on her when she passes. She ignores them. They are brainwashed; the mislead children of a lying mother. There’s bitterness in her throat as she considers the Chantry and she wills the taste away. It’s left behind, just like those templars, as she enters the feast hall.

At their usual table, her companions wait. There’s a seat for her, between Shuul and Jowan, which she climbs into. The bench rocks with her weight and Shuul almost upends. The table laughs as he frantically corrects his balance. “For an elf you sure are bad at this whole grace thing.”

“Shove it Neria.” The table laughs on. Solona wonders, for a moment, about the many noises surrounding her and the constant bustle. When she’d first arrived in the Apprentice Quarters there was just too much movement around her. The world was too vibrant and vivid after spending those two years in confinement. She knows now that it was essential that she be kept separate.

She understands. Now.

She watches her companions, her friends, as they joke and kid with one another. These are the moments that feel like their lives will last like this forever. The few of them; Jowan and Shuul and Neria and Keili and her. Solona knows this is the immortality of youth that she’s read about so much. Neria throws a roll at her head and she’s snapped back into present time.

“How’s the studying going? Find anything new and exciting about the dwarves?”

Solona leans forward. “Well, I read more about their descent patterns. I get that it’s unilateral and I’m desperate to know what the reasoning is. I have a feeling that it’s about their caste, you know with the nobles, warriors, that kind of stuff. But it’s possible to change castes. It’s harder with our system, ya know. People born into a farming family usually become farmers-“

“Unless they’re born a mage!”

She specific side-steps Jowan’s exclamation and continues.

“I guess what I’m saying is that I hope the circle will let me go to Orzammar or something after I’m an enchanter so I can do more research.”

“Sometimes I think you care more about learning things you’ll never have any use for than you do about the people around you.” Everyone titters at that too but they’re only half-joking and Solona knows that.

She _would_ rather spend time learning and studying than she being with other people, sometimes. Books don’t talk back. Well, not the way that her friends do. They lose interest with her quickly and move on to something that affects them all.

“I hear you’re being harrowed in a few days Shuul. Worried?” From one elf to another, the question is laced with subtext. This, too, is something that Solona has been looking for. A way to tell what sorts of secret messages Shuul and Neria pass between the two of them.

Shuul squeezes his eyes shut and throws his hands in the air, displaying clearly his excitement. “I am so very ready!” His voice rises above the rest of the room and there’s sudden quiet as everyone looks right at him. Shuul doesn’t care. He shouts again and the older mages, those that can understand his excitement, grin back at him.

The group laughs. Their times will come. Inevitably, it always does.

-!-

She’s back in the library again after dinner. The guard has been changed and she gives the templar standing in Cullen’s place a quick look before heading back to her desk. Oh yes, her desk. She only has a dozen pages left to read before she’s done with this codex and she wants to finish. Solona is driven by the need to know the rest of this strange story so she can file it away with the rest of the information in her head.

The pages don’t take all that long but once she’s done with the book she goes back and rereads her notes, just to be sure she has everything down. And then, she glances back through the book. She feels like she’s sucked all the knowledge out of this tome that she can. The ancient paper feels like silk in her fingertips as she flips through, just once more.

At the top of the Tower the bells that have counted out her life for the last fourteen years ring in the eleventh hour. It’s time to sleep.

The templar makes no move as she passes him and Solona thinks he must have fallen asleep. Carroll and Aldridge have the tendency to do that, but only in the library.

The halls are silent as she makes her way up to the Apprentices Quarters. Her head is full of castes and lineal systems and that one healing spell she’s just incapable of casting. She hears, in the back of her mind, the armor clanking in front of her and if her nose hadn’t been buried in her notes she’d have probably seen the templar descending as she ascended.

Her world tips backwards and hangs there for just a moment. Solona’s eyes go wide and she realizes she’s _falling_. Back and down and there’s stairs. She throws the papers in her hands; this is going to hurt-

Her hip takes the brunt of the impact with her shoulder not far behind. Her head connects with the stone steps last and she’s knocked almost senseless. The three steps below her rush up to meet her body and she thumps all the way back down to the landing where she stops in a heap. Deep breaths. She flexes her muscles slowly; nothing feels so painful that it could be broken.

The crunch of armor on the stairs catches her ear. She glances up. Templar. Whichever one, she has no idea. Just that this templar is big and she doesn’t know him. “Useless mage. Apprentice. Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

Ser Emic then. A shiver runs down her spine; few templars are ever really cruel but it’s just her luck that Emic is one of these spiteful few. And he hates her. With a fierce and extreme passion stemming from an incident with a water spell gone horribly awry at the same time as a lightning spell. And Emic in his metal armor; Solona had spent a week _under observation_ after that debacle.

She’s dragged to her feet and shaken. The impact of her fall makes her cry out in pain and Emic shakes her again, harder. “Always with your face buried in a book. Too clumsy for the likes of this place.” Solona can feel the metal of his gauntlet digging into her skin again and it _hurts_.

It hurts like she’s six again and just watched her family go up in flames. She’s flooded with fear and she can’t move. A flash of paper, floating softly to the ground finally, catches her attention before its jarred back to Emic and his anger. Through his helm she can make out his narrowed eyes and she knows she needs to talk her way out of this and fast.

“Please, ser, I’m sorry. I _wasn’t_ paying attention. I’ll watch out, next time. I promise I’ll be more careful.” She sounds weak and a little frantic. There’s energy building around her, an automatic response she’s never really ever been able to master when panicked. “Please.”

Emic pulls them face to face. She can feel his breath escaping from the opening at his neck. He smells like hatred. Solona closes her eyes and prays.

 _O Maker, hear my cry: let me shine in your light._ Solona feels her energy building, unbidden. She can’t push it down and it’s going to pull her in. _O Maker. Give me fortitude._

“What are you _doing?!_ ”

Both the templar and Solona turn, surprised, at the new voice and she knows that her relief is audible when she realizes its Cullen. Cullen with the sharp mind and the soft smile. He wears no such smile at this moment though. His face is a storm of anger and when he speaks it is thunder. “Let her go!”

Solona doesn’t think Emic will listen, but something in the other templar’s tone forces him to release her. She stumbles back into the wall of the stairwell. Emic raises his hands. “Just teaching her a lesson about being careful, Ser Cullen. Nothing amiss here.”

Cullen takes one step forward. His presence fills the room and even Solona wants to shrink back from the wrath coming off him in waves. “Leave, now, and I won’t be forced to explain this mishap to the Knight-Commander.” The air is still thick with tension and anger. Emic lowers his hands and glares, once, at Solona before walking off. She swears he’s whistling off-tune as he rounds the corner.

When the last of his shiny backside disappears she collapses to the ground. Her right hip really hurts and by proxy her leg. She lands in a ball of robes and _sore_ and she can’t help the soft cry of pain that escapes.

“Are you all right?”

Cullen is beside her, knelt down and tipping her face up to him. She memorizes the widened eyes and the creased brow. Concern. Worry. She manages a smile, just to try and cheer him up. It works, she thinks, as he returns her smile. Relief.

“What happened?”

The stone beneath her bites into her ankles. She shifts her body weight, putting her butt on the ground and allowing her back to arch. It takes some of the pressure off her hip and it feels better. Still painful. Just less so.

“I wasn’t paying attention and ran into him. I was looking over my notes.” She waves a hand at the scattered parchments. “I should be more careful.” There’s a rueful note in her tone that Cullen shakes off.

“Ser Emic is a bully. I’m just glad-“ When he pauses she swears that her heart skips a beat because he’s looking at her like he can’t stand the thought of losing her. “I’m glad you’re all right.” It makes some sort of convoluted sense that Cullen actually _cares_. There’s, of course, logical explanations for his concern. It’s his _job_ to make sure she’s safe. _His job._

His hand reaches up and cups her cheek. She is almost positive that he’s about to kiss her and she inhales sharply at the idea. Just the thought sends pangs straight to her center. But, he doesn’t lean forward simply turns her face to the left. It hurts when she moves her neck like that and her next whimper of pain seems to jar Cullen. “You’re already starting to bruise.” He pushes back from her, rolling on the balls of his feet back to a standing position. He makes quick work of collecting her papers and soon he’s back in front of her. “Come on; let’s get you back to the dorms.”

She takes his offered hand, cold metal gauntlet and all, and he pulls her up. She wants to pretend like the act of standing isn’t horribly painful but she can’t and she grimaces. He loops an arm around her midsection and helps her tackle the stairs.

He pauses outside the dorm and turns to her. “Are you going to be all right?”

She raises a hand and rubs her sore head. It just makes her wince again. Cullen’s hand replaces hers and his touch is more gentle despite his armor as he checks over the bump again. The metal is cold; she shivers away from his touch and smiles up, just to show him it’s all right. He’s not deterred, however, and he removes his gauntlet.

She feels his fingertips brush her hairline.

Her world freezes. Her limbs go heavy; her spine is numb and she can’t move for fear of breaking contact with him. Even as she feels the cold she can also feel heat spread out from the touch. She can do nothing but blink up at him. He’s watching his hand, almost reverently, and she realizes his lips are so close.

And now his mouth is moving and saying something but she doesn’t hear. Doesn’t care.

 _So close._

In the days to come Solona will think back on this moment many times. Usually with a wistful sense of happiness, less often with a feeling of loss and regret, but always with conviction. She reaches up, wraps her hand around the back of his neck, and pulls his lips down to her own.

He’s in the middle of a word and she coaxes him slowly into the kiss, at first slight and hesitant. As he shuts up she pulls harder on his neck, forcing their mouths closer. The kiss deepens. She still feels numb for the most part but her mouth has its own plans. He’s kissing back now and she could almost laugh at how untried he seems. Almost. She won’t, would never. Not now, with the warm press of his tongue against hers she is jolted into hyperawareness.

Cullen’s hand cups her cheek now as he tries to kiss her harder. It makes her head spin; she’s lightheaded now. They make no further contact but it’s enough. The hair at the nape of his neck is not as soft as she expected it to be. The curls wind themselves around her fingers. She tightens her grip more.

As she tightens, he pulls away, gasping for air. For a long drawn out moment there is nothing but the two sets of wide eyes that stare into each other and the sounds of their labored breathing.

The clock tolls again, signaling midnight.

Solana jumps back from Cullen, startled and suddenly aware of what’s just happened. Her fingers shake as they rise to touch her swollen lips and his gaze follows the movement. She is speechless.

Him, not quite as much. “I- I am so . . . _sorry_. I shouldn’t- we- this was _wrong._ ” It’s the way he says it, full of regret.

She can tell that this is what having her heart break feels like. Numb, once more. Breathless and confused and incredibly turned on. But so _sad._ She’s brimming with the feeling and it closes an icy grip around her spine.

Cullen turns and flees before Solona can think of anything to say.

She watches him go. There’s nothing else she could do, she thinks. He slips away.

Her pillow muffles the strange emotions that she cries out that night as she falls asleep.


	5. Fractured

_Chapter Five_

The things that make her are complex. She has the tragedy of her past, less in focus these days. What she did as a child still holds weight but she doesn’t think about it. About them, her family. It’s better this way. She is built more fully on her last years in the Circle: learning about the judgment of other children and the eventual friendships that are born.

Her friends have defined her for five years. She had thought, simply days earlier, that they would define her for many years to come. All five of them would make it through their Harrowings and move up to the mage’s quarters and discover a whole new world of magic. Solona thinks that maybe she could discover a way to _fix_ the maleficars and wouldn’t that be something.

As she listens to the screams floating down the stairs, though, she thinks that perhaps she’s been very naïve. Her grip on Neria’s hand tightens and both of them are so very close to tears. They don’t cry, though. There are three templars standing at the stairs leading to the Harrowing Chamber and they’re watching the small group. Too much emotion, on a day like today, could get them all killed.

Another scream comes, but it no longer sounds human. “O _Maker_.” Keili is huddled behind the other two girls and she falls to her knees at the sound. Prayer springs from her lips easily these days, Solona thinks.

Shouts ring down the stairs. The three templars turn. The door opens up and Knight-Commander Greagoir steps out onto the stairs. In his hand he holds a bloody sword, still dripping on the stones at his armored feet. Nothing needs to be said.

Shuul is dead.

Keili can’t help shouting out in dismay, crying her bitter sadness. Fierce sobs shake her huddled frame. Irving appears at the top of the stairs behind Greagoir and there is real sorrow on his face. More templars filter out. Finally the last few emerge. They are bloodier than the rest and Solona knows that these are the templars that struck the killing blows.

The realization that one of the templars is Ser Emic, with a disgustingly satisfied smile on his face, makes her sick, literally. She runs to the washroom and empties her stomach of her breakfast.

The eternalism of youth has been fractured and Solona cries.

-!-

The days following a failed Harrowing are tense in the tower. No one speaks too loudly for fear that the templars will spook. Apprentices haunt the halls with empty expressions and lessons are wasted. No one has the energy to summon enough will, not at first. The templars watch with renewed vigilance and those that struck down the abomination are usually given a wide berth.

There’s little in this world of stone and magic that is more disturbing than watching a mage transform into something so demonic, or so she’s heard.

Solona feels as though she is floating these days; she still expects Shuul to come bounding up to her with a hug at any moment. He never comes and she doesn’t allow anything to penetrate the haze in her head. Nothing of great import, at any rate. Lessons are a blur; Silas tries to teach her concentration and she is so distracted that she can’t, just cannot, find the will. He scolds her; she’s been around long enough to know that some mages don’t come out of the Harrowing Chamber. She’s lost fellow students before.

 _Not friends though. None of them were. Why does this feel like it should hurt so badly yet doesn’t hurt at all?_

Apathy has settled into her soul, firmly.

This death has fractured their group.

The other three withdraw from each other in their own ways. Keili spends almost every waking moment in the Chantry. She’s on her knees praying for deliverance from her magic. Solona tries to sit with her for a while, just to run through the Chant. She hopes that the familiar words will comfort her. She makes it all the way to Transformations and gives up. It no longer makes her feel better.

Jowan spends more time in the Chantry as well; just not in the same way. His eyes are constantly focused on a new lay sister. He falls into the girl with desperation born of despair; self destruction framing his perceived noble intents. Solona talks to him, once, about the relationship and he shoots back a comment about her and Cullen. Glass towers and all.

Solona had forgotten about Cullen after everything. Just his name makes her cheeks burn red. Jowan’s laugh is cold as it follows her out of the room and away from his judging eyes. She will never mention what Jowan is doing, not to anyone. Another death will solve nothing and she owes it to him, to their friendship, to allow him to make his mistakes. She prays to the Maker that nothing comes of the romance; that the two part amicably with no one else the wiser.

Neria seems to be the best adjusted. She still has moments of sadness, times where she looks at Solona with an emptiness in her eyes. The glances never last long; Neria is ingrained with the necessity of the Harrowing and accepts it. She is brave because the Chantry made her so. The elf, having lost one of her own kind, throws herself back into her studies. She must prepare, she says. So that she doesn’t follow the same path that Shuul did.

Worst of all, Solona just misses Shuul. She misses his presence behind her as watches her back during elemental practice. She misses the hugs he would give when she was frustrated with a text. She even misses his instructions about the art of love making, long over but still close to her heart. They never saw his body after the failed Harrowing and Solona is pretty sure that was on purpose. The drawings she’s seen of abominations aren’t pretty.

The four of them stop eating together and in the mornings Jowan no longer walks her to class. He practically disappears from her sight; she doesn’t care.

When the grief finally stops tearing her apart and she learns a slow acceptance, she’s called into Irving’s office. Greagoir is there as well. Solona thinks that maybe the two of them are secretly in love and unable to part from each other’s side. They are always seen together, the solid front of the Chantry and the Circle in her life.

“Come in, child.” It has been a long time since Irving called her child. His tone indicates compassion. Perhaps it’s time for her to hear the inevitable speech about the necessity of the Harrowing and the sadness of Shuul’s death. “Please, take a seat.”

She does so, perched uncomfortable on the edge of a chair. She looks expectantly at the two older men. Greagoir has his arms folded but he stands tall. Not a whole lot of room for leaning and comfort in the heavy armor he wears, she supposes. He looks bored, though. His eyes wander around the room, inspecting individual items for a moment before moving on.

Irving looks calm and collected. He, clearly, is no longer affected by what’s happened to Shuul. Solona is not surprised. The First Enchanter has been around for a very long time and has seen this happen before. He leans forward at his desk, his elbows planted on the wood firmly.

“We’ve been watching you very carefully these last years, as I’m sure you’re aware.” Instantly the thought of Cullen flares up in her mind. She can’t help but blush. The way Greagoir looks at her tells her that he catches the sudden heat on her cheeks. Does he know, she wonders, about the kiss and how her eyes follow Cullen everywhere? She wouldn’t be in an office though, right, if they knew. Surely she’d be in much more trouble. “A mage with your beginnings has to be watched after, you understand.” Irving says the word _beginnings_ with a hint of delicacy.

Burning her family to death when she was six is a fairly delicate matter.

“You’ve shown yourself to be a good scholar and a good worker of magic despite your childhood. Knight-Commander Greagoir and I have agreed that your time has come. We’ve scheduled your Harrowing for the week after next. We’d prefer to do it soon, for various reasons, but in light of the recent loss of your fellow Apprentice Shuul, we thought it best to wait.”

She shifts in her seat, both when he mentions her Harrowing (O maker she doesn’t even want to think about that) and when he says Shuul. He does so in a way that negates any sort of compassion she thought he might be feeling. Irving just sounds cold and calculated even as he continues, trying to reassure her. “We have every faith in your ability. You’re going to be a very good mage, Solona. And your scholarly endeavors have merit as well; perhaps even a chance to research in the field, if we feel it appropriate.”

There’s no way she can say no. She will not allow herself to be made Tranquil and death is still a frightening concept to her. Irving must have known this. He must have known exactly what to tempt her with, in order to gain her agreement. Field research; she’s only dreamed of doing such a thing. Never really considered it a possibility.

The First Enchanter’s office feels like its closing in on her; the two men in the room are crowding her. Solona pulls in on herself and only gives a miserable nod of assent when Irving asks her if she consents.

When she walks back to her dorm she feels like she’s walking to her execution. Rationally she can accept that the Harrowing shouldn’t be too difficult. It’s a well guarded secret, yes, but not so well guarded that her hours of research haven’t given her warning. Refusing a demon should be a walk in the park. Another voice in her head asks, _if it had been so easy why had Shuul failed?_

It makes another wave of misery flow over her.

She doesn’t hear Neria’s approach until the elf is holding on to her arm. She almost jumps in surprise as the added weight pushes them both down the hallway a little faster. “You’re never going to guess who called me into their office today.”

Considering the lack of actual offices in the Tower, six by her last count, and the excited expression on Neria’s face, Solona _can_ guess. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and say: Irving. And Greagoir was there too. Do you think something is going on between the two of them? I can’t shake the feeling.” Solona pokes her friend in the ribs, earning a squeal.

“You too then? Both Harrowed and the illicit affair between the two heads of the Tower. I think they’re in _love._ ” Neria draws the word out and both of them laugh at the silliness of it. “So, I guess you’re not the first to fall for a man in a nice suit of armor. Shouldn’t be surprised though; you always were a little slow on the social uptake.”

Solona pulls the elf to a stop and turns to glare. “What in Andraste’s name are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t give me that crap. I _saw_ the two of you, last week, outside the dorms. Not the best place in the world to be sucking face, Lona.”

She turns bright red. She is going to die. Either from embarrassment or beheading, she doesn’t know. If Neria starts telling others . . . this could end very very badly for her. “You can’t tell _anyone_.”

Neria pats her cheek. “Don’t worry. You know my lips are sealed. I’m honestly surprised at you. Usually you’re a stickler for the rules. But, I can’t really blame you. One of the mages told me that she caught a glimpse of him in the lake once and that his armor hides magnificence.” Solona tries hard, really really hard actually, not to think about it but the idea of Cullen, sans armor, is . . . breathtaking.

“Cullen is . . . different. He’s very smart you know.” She pulls Neria into motion again and slips into analytical mode. “He didn’t arrive at the Chantry until he was almost fourteen. He’s got lots of experience in the world outside of clerics and templars.”

“Yes, I am so sure that you admire him just for his mind. Tell me; were you trying to get inside his brain last week? Strange way to go about it, and all, with your tongue you know.”

She will never stop blushing. Not ever. Remembering their kiss makes her blood rush and her head go all dizzy. Remembering the moment right after their kiss makes her serious and displeased. “I think that might have been a one-time-only sort of thing. He wasn’t exactly happy about it.”

“Yeah, I saw the way he ran. But, honestly Lona? That boy has it bad for you and you just scared him, is all. I bet if you applied yourself, should you want to apply yourself of course, you’d be able to see exactly what’s under that armor in no time.”

Solona tips her head to one side, contemplating. “Do you think so?”

“Oh, you bet.” They’re nearing the dorm now and to Solona’s horror she sees that Cullen, of course it’s him, is positioned outside the door. As the two approach the templar, he turns his head slightly. She can see his eyes through his helm and they don’t look terribly pleased. “Good afternoon Ser Intellect!” Solona could strangle Neria with her cheerfulness. And then dump her body in the lake for her jabs.

Cullen turns his gaze straight forward once more and declines a response. He seems stiffer than usual. She hasn’t really seen him since that night; he’d made himself scarce and she’d heard whispers that he’d asked to be assigned to the mage’s quarters after Shuul. She knows avoidance when she sees it.

Though they say nothing to each other, Solona feels his presence as she passes like an electric current. He shifts, maybe feeling it too. She’ll give him some time to calm down before approaching him again. After all, so long as she passes her Harrowing, they’ve got all the time in the world.


	6. Nightmares

_Chapter Six_

Night. Heavy and dark, it closes around her. In her bunk, Solona feels smothered under the weight. No light penetrates the room yet there are shadows everywhere. They move around her, creeping ever closer.

She is in the Fade; realm of dreams . . . and nightmares.

Her pulse picks up. If this is the Fade, then is this her Harrowing? Has the time come? She always expected something . . . different.

A flicker grabs her attention and she looks towards it. There is a light coming from the hallway. Her feet brush the floor, bare skin on hard stone. There are no rugs here. She’s at the door. In the long, curving corridor, she can see a candle, its flame jumping.

The feeling of dread in her stomach gives her pause and she is momentarily frozen in place.

The candle flickers again.

It calls to her. She steps into the hallway.

“Little Lona. Where are you going?”

“Mother?”

When she spins around, there is no one behind her. But, it was definitely her Mother’s voice calling for her. Solona turns back and jumps in surprise. There’s a templar standing directly in front of her. He folds his hands. The way his gray sash is tied . . . she can tell its Cullen. She smiles with relief. Surely, if he’s here she’ll be all right.

His hand raises and he reaches for her. There’s something wrong with the way he takes a step forward. He moves with a jerkiness that is unlike him. He steps closer again, his hand grasping towards her. Towards her throat. “Cullen? What are you doing?”

She screams as the metal gauntlet closes at the base of her neck and he’s driving her to her knees before him. She sees the shining sword he holds in his other hand. Watches as it raises high. “Maleficar!” His voice booms and Solona realizes that this is not Cullen.

The gleaming eyes that stare down at her are lifeless.

Not Cullen. Not-

The hand moves upwards, to her throat, and she can’t breathe.

Solona comes awake with a jerk. She sits up so fast that she falls out of bed and lands on the thread bare rug next to her bunk with a bone-jarring thump. She lays there for a moment, her breathing coming in gasps yet not allowing enough air. Not Cullen. Just a dream. _Just a dream._

Her throat contracts and her neck still hurts where the templar’s hand had been.

“Lona? You okay? You were screaming.” Neria’s voice floats across the room to her. In the mostly empty dorm, the elf sounds like she’s miles away.

Solona pushes herself up. She has to be sure; she needs to see him. She’s out the door; behind her she hears Neria call her name again. _Not Cullen._

Cullen!

Right in front of her she sees the templar. _Her_ templar. Right where he always is on night duty. He hears her approaching and turns just as she crashes into his chest. “Solona, what-?”

“Please, take off your helm. _Please. Cullen!“_ He holds her at arm’s length and looks her up and down, probably searching for injury. She must look a fright; she can feel the tears that are streaming down her cheeks. The tears _burn._

He hesitates for another moment while she pleads softly _just take off the helm_ before his hands come up and remove the metal. She’s so relieved; she crumples into his chest again. The helm falls to the floor with a clatter and his hands come up to her shoulders. She cries harder.

He says nothing as the fear of her nightmare slowly drains from her body with every shake of her frame. Slowly his hands move to cradle her better and one even starts rubbing circles on her back. His cheek comes to rest against her forehead. His arms are comforting and feel like the most natural place in the world for her to be.

When her breathing evens out he murmurs against her hairline, “Did you have a nightmare?”

She nods. “I’m scared out of my mind about my Harrowing tomorrow. I keep having these terrible dreams and you’re in them, but it’s not really you. It’s like your evil twin, striking me down.” She feels his adam’s apple dipping as he swallows hard. His face is kinda scratchy, now that she thinks about it. He needs to shave.

“I would never strike you down. Not unless I absolutely had to.”

She wishes he sounded more convinced of that. “You’re always comforting me. I suppose that fulfills the protect part of your job description, huh?” She means the words to be light hearted. Somehow, it makes him hold on tighter. He says nothing, just continues to rub her back. She relaxes into the touch and the last grips of the dream are slowly letting go of her mind. They stand, wrapped in each other, for what seems like an eternity.

“Do you feel better?” There is an open tenderness in his words that twists in her gut. His embrace loosens. She should let go. If someone were to catch them . . . bad. Very bad. She doesn’t want to, though. She wants to hold on tighter; so tight that she sinks through his armor to the man underneath. His arms are falling away and she finally allows him to step back.

“Yes. I do. Thank you.” She doesn’t mean to sound so formal. She can’t help it. He shifts uncomfortably, folding his hands at his back. Her dream flickers into her mind again. Not Cullen. He probably wants her to go.

“I’m sorry I kissed you.”

It’s the only thing she can think to say. This situation is spiraling away from her and she feels the need to _explain_. “It’s just- you’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met before. You’re so nice and smart. I could talk to you for hours about anything. I know you think what happened was wrong; I don’t want to do anything that could hurt our friendship. Losing that would be devastating, especially after-“ Her voice trails off, not quite mentally strong enough to say Shuul’s name out loud. Not at this moment.

She wonders how she has put aside Neria’s suggestion that she could convince Cullen to kiss her again. To sleep with her. She thinks that Cullen would truly be lost to her, though, should that occur. The impact of their friendship hits fully then and she closes her eyes against the thought of not having it. “I just . . . I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have put you in that sort of situation.”

When her eyes open he’s staring at her. This is an expression she cannot read. The closest guess she might make is somewhere between a rueful acceptance and gratitude. Strange indeed. Cullen says nothing, which only makes his face all the more confusing.

“I, uh . . . guess I should get back to sleep. Big day tomorrow and all.” How she could possibly sleep now, she can’t even comprehend. But, she needs to try. She needs all the strength she can muster.

Finally, as she’s about to go back to her bunk, he nods. “I appreciate your consideration.” He sounds so formal now as well. Awkward, even, like their first conversations when she surprised him just by talking to him. “I wish you luck tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll do very well.” The clipped tones of an acquaintance sort of break her heart all over again.

“Thank you, Ser Cullen.” Her voice is a whisper.

Solona thinks that the wince she sees cross his face is just a figment of her imagination as she turns and walks away.


	7. Harrowed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all Harrowings are the same; Solona finds this out the hardest way imaginable.

Chapter Seven

 _The Harrowing Chamber._

She’s been shaking since she climbed the stairs, leaving behind a watchful Neria and the three templars that will guard the door from the outside. Her tremors are more from sleep deprivation, she admits, than from fear. Solona is still confident that she’ll do just fine. She is prepared.

Before her stand the two most important men in her life. Greagoir and Irving both give her speeches and she should be listening but she is so tired. The third most important man in her life is standing next to a found in the middle of the room, looking miserable.

Cullen shakes as well. His armor is so heavy; only the light sway of his skirt gives away the nervousness he displays. She tries not to look at him. He does not meet her eyes and she thinks back to the night before. Today she will become a full mage. Today, her place at the Circle will be solidified and then she will no longer be the apprentice whom Cullen has a crush on.

She thinks, perhaps, this is why he looks as terrible as she feels inside.

Irving motions her to step towards the fount, towards Cullen. Her weary limbs obey even as her mind is still screaming that this is the single most frightening moment of her life. Her powers feel drained. She’d tossed and turned through the rest of the night before. She was going to fail.

Her hand reaches out. She can’t fail. Entering the Fade is a bright flash of light and she’s suddenly on the floor.

It’s hard to summon without a staff, at first. She is almost taken out by a ball of energy that whizzes into her chest. She’s knocked down and she can feel her strength rebuilding as she stands. She’s in the Fade. Here, she can conjure anything that she needs.

After that first mishap she finds that these whisps are handled easily. Her arcane bolt is strong. She is _strong._

The talking Mouse throws her, at first, before she rationalizes the fact that it’s a spirit in another form. Shape shifting is not all that uncommon, after all. When the Mouse addresses her by name, she smiles. She knows that the Fade is the dream realm. She must be influencing this place.

Then again, she has no reasoning for the templar she finds.

He glowers at her, literally, and tells her his name is _Duty_. He lectures her too. Although he’s a templar and not Cullen, NOT Cullen, he’s still nice to her. Giving her tips, she actually smiles at him. He does not smile back.

 _“He will never love you. No templar ever will, not really.”_

Solona takes a four step back, tripping over Mouse and landing on her rear. Mouse squeaks. Duty covers the distance between them and growls. “Learn from those before you. If you survive this trial . . . you will never find happiness with him.”

She doesn’t even know what to say. When Duty throws a staff at her feet and tells her to do her _job_ she nods, stands, and follows Mouse. She is shaking again. How can one shake in a dream realm?

The sloth demon makes her laugh.

It makes her want to lie down and nap with it but she doesn’t because demons are bad even if she is exhausted. Instead she answers its silly riddles. It teaches Mouse how to change form but Mouse doesn’t want to change. Solona tries to encourage the small rodent spirit that perhaps being able to shift into a bereskarn would be rather interesting. Mouse squeaks again; says that it’s already got another form.

When Mouse changes into its, _his_ , human form Solona can feel her body seize with fright. Her physical body, in the real world, where the templars are watching. Shock tightens her muscles and it’s a bone-cracking pain that translates across the veil to screams of pain. Endlessly screaming it feels like.

The spirit of Shuul tries to calm her down. He tells her that if she doesn’t relax the templars will kill her. She has to stop struggling against the Fade. They will _kill her._

The screaming stops; Shuul is still standing there. She steps to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. He wears his robes and his smile and he is right in front of her. “How? We were told you turned into an abomination.”

“No abomination. I had much the same reaction when my guide changed into his real form. The templars killed me. I am trapped, Lona.”

She hugs him tightly. “Can I help?”

Shuul takes her to a Rage Demon and side by side they bring the thing down. They are smiling when the last of the ash cools; she hugs him again. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“And I, you. How is everyone?”

Solona gives him a sad look now; loneliness. “Falling apart. Keili is talking about becoming Tranquil, Neria thinks she’s going to be the next First Enchanter, and Jowan has fallen in love with a damned lay sister.”

Shuul laughs and kisses her forehead. It’s such a familiar motion; he’s been doing this to her since they first started spending time together. She wants to cry with the joy of holding him again. However, this cannot last. If she’s under too long she’ll be killed anyway. She misses Shuul; she does not, however, want to spend eternity here with him. Not just yet.

“I should get back, don’t you think?”

He pulls back from her, still with a smile on his face. “You did well. You still have time. Stay.”

It’s so tempting. He kisses her forehead again. “Just a little longer.” Just a bit, she thinks, can’t hurt. She hasn’t been here that long, right? She’s got time.

“That’s right. Stay with me, here.”

The world around them shifts, the tans and reds blend and merge; it’s darker. Gray and brown, stone and wood. They stand in a quiet corner of the library. He cups her cheek and tips her face up to his own. They are kids again and he is going to teach her the art of making love.

Shuul is gentle; always kind and considerate. She allows his kiss to pull her deeper. Shadows hide the both of them as he lays her down. Pulls at the ties of her gown. She hasn’t thought about the two of them like this, seriously, in many years.

Something feels wrong.

The way he smiles up at her . . . it lacks _something_. A spark, the mischief that Shuul was always in the middle of. He removes her belt, easily. Shuul always had problems with the way she ties her knots. There’s a glimmer of light, just outside of the field of her vision. She turns and looks; a candle. Flickering in the middle of the library she can see the wax drip slowly to the floor. It taps out a steady beat that falls into time with her heart.

A templar watches the two of them from the other side of the flame. Cullen _Duty_ NotCullen.

Solona gasps as his fingers find her center; she is wet for him but this is not real. He can see it in her face, when she wills herself not to believe. He roars, even as he has his fingers inside of her, and his face starts to become _not_ his face. Solona pushes back at the changing form as hard as possible.

She feels her physical body arch again and slam back down. Solona cries out. The demon, the one that’s been wearing Shuul’s face, laughs and Solona screams. The staff; its right next to her. Her hands find the iron and she brings it forward, sitting upwards with the movement. Her will is exploding forwards, channeled into one bolt of power. “O Maker. Grant me strength.”

The world goes black.

_-!-_

Someone carries her. The arms are cold around her. She stirs and her hand comes up; it rests against a raised symbol. Her cheek does as well. The arms tighten and a voice tells her everything will be okay. She murmurs into the metal. The words are nonsense. She feels impossibly heavy and tired and she really should just go back to sleep.

She does not dream this time.

Solona comes to her senses slowly, the second time she awakes. Her head is killing her and she’s aware that she’s in a bed. Her bed? Possibly. The last of the remnants of her time in the Fade are floating away from her leaving her feeling drained. She has little energy to speak of. None, at all in fact. Flashes of Shuul and Duty laugh at her from the back of her mind. She pushes them both away and opens her eyes.

She’s not in her bed. She’s in a room; not a dorm but an actual bed room. It’s a nice room, she thinks. Small, but serviceable. As she swings her feet off the bed and set them down solidly on the plush rug she wonders whose room it is. A mage, so long as she’s still in the Tower. There are no personal articles though; just the bed, the armoire, a vanity, and a wash stand. Beneath her hands the fabric of the blanket is soft and comfortable.

She stands.

And sits right back down again with a cry of pain. Her back is absolutely killing her. She rises again, cautiously, and crosses to the mirror. Her robes are loose on her and she undoes the ties holding her bodice in place. The fabric whispers to the ground. She parts the remaining fabric and turns, exposing her back to the glass.

“Maker, what a mess.” There’s a line of ugly bruises running down her spine. Her right hip still has a faint greenish cast from her tumble on the stairs. She turns fully back to the mirror and inspects herself for any other damage.

A cut, already healing, crosses her left jugular. Her hand flies to the skin there, just to make sure she’s not seeing things. The wound is real though. The bruises on her back are explainable. She’s read about the physical reactions some mages’ bodies have while their souls are in the Fade. In fact, she’d just read through an account of a woman whose body walked twenty paces and then laid back down.

The cut at her throat though: there are very few ways she could have gotten that.

Unbidden the image of the templar from her dream, his hand grasped around her throat and his sword raised, comes back to her. She is too weak to be thinking about things like this. She needs to sit down. Solona sways and stumbles backwards to the bed.

“Lona! You awake?” Her head whips around at the voice in the doorway. Neria. She tries for a smile as the elf rushes to her side and throws her arms around her. “I’m so relieved to see your smile. You have no idea. I thought- after what the templars were saying about your Harrowing. We almost lost you, Lona. What happened in there?” Neria speaks too quickly when she’s excited.

She holds the elf. Solona is emotionally _destroyed_. She needs to sleep for a little while longer. Somewhere around a year should work, she thinks.

“C’mon! Spill it.”

Neria leans back and looks directly into Solona’s eyes. What she sees there displeases her. A frown crosses her face and she settles next to her friend on the bed. “Was it really so bad?”

“I understand how Shuul could have failed, now.” Neria’s jaw drops and she moves closer. Solona can’t remain upright anymore. She allows herself to lay back and Neria follows. The embrace feels good, comforting. Solona hugs her tightly. “It _was terrifying_. There was a hidden demon; he tried to possess me. And I almost let him.” Her eyes are burning. She’s going to cry. “O Maker, I almost let him.” She doesn’t mention Shuul. She’ll get around to telling the elf eventually but for now, she is done speaking.

Neria holds her until she falls back to sleep, the burning in her eyes dripping down her face.


	8. Mage

_**Chapter Eight** _

The first thing Solona learns about being a mage is that it’s not all that different than being an apprentice. She still has her magic, after all. Being a mage does not exclude her from having to consistently work on her skills. She finds texts from the Free Marches; power rooted in the faith of the Maker. She thinks that she would like to learn these spells and many times she can be found in a spare training room.

Free time is in abundance, however. She finds one of the best benefits of her new found down time is that she is free to wander the gardens. Previously off limits as an apprentice, she spends hours in the sunlight and cool breeze. Some days she reads. Sometimes she just sits and stares out across the lake. It has been so long since she’s been able to just watch the world. She had not realized how much she missed it.

It’s the gardens where Irving finds her, the week after her Harrowing. She is twelve chapters into a book when he sits next to her on her bench. She glances over at him, notes the contemplative look on his face, and marks her page. He doesn’t say anything, even as she sets her book aside.

His gaze is fixed to the south east. He’s frowning. Solona turns her eyes to the same direction and sees nothing of import. It is a beautiful day, however. Barely past noon, the sun is warm on her face. She can see the ferry, tied to the dock, and the small building sitting away from the shore. She wants to know when she’ll be able to explore, to discover the world. It’s too soon, she figures, for her to really go anywhere but the thought makes her smile.

“What have you learned about Darkspawn?”

All happiness drains from her at Irving’s words. “First Enchanter?” She wants him to be testing her, just to see if she actually learns things in the library.

Irving sighs and seems to sink down into himself. His energy, consistent and even at every other moment of her recollection, seems to be fluctuating. Not very significantly, at least not by her standards, but enough to make her very worried.

“There’s a Blight coming, so we hear from the capital. I received a message from Denerim just this morning. The King wants to build an army to face the threat. We expect to send a group from the Tower to assist.” He turns sad eyes at her. “If you’ve found anything interesting that I might not know, I’d like to hear it.”

This is the first time anyone has shown any serious interest in what she’s been doing with her time outside of classes. It surprises her, a bit, that Irving knows about her tendency to research. “Um. Well.” She can’t find her words. She can’t assemble any thoughts to put into words.

“Anything at all Solona.”

The breath she takes is clean and calming, she thinks. She could live out here, in this garden. “Well, the Chantry suggests that the first Darkspawn were Tevinter Magistrates. I’ve been reading some texts from the Imperium. It’s possible I’ve stumbled across a few spells that are rarely used that might help ward against the type of magic they’ve been recorded to use. As I’ve never seen a Darkspawn I wouldn’t really know for sure.” She hopes this is what he’s looking for.

He falls into another round of silence, just thinking. Perhaps there’s something else. She digs into her memory, trying to remember what else the texts she’d found had said.

“We were worried about you, you know. From the moment you arrived here.”

Now this is a conversation she never really wanted to have. Fourteen years in this tower have given her insight to the way mage children who are discovered through the deaths of others are treated. She knows she’s a special case; she should have been killed when she’d been taken to the Chantry. There was no precedence for actually transporting a ‘family killer’ back for training, at least not in Ferelden.

“The templar standing guard over you had his sword to your throat when you were in the Fade. You were shaking, violently. You almost did his job for him you jerked so hard at one point.” Her hand raises and cups her throat. The wound there is closed now, thanks to some magic from Wynne, but she will not forget it any time soon.

“You were speaking while you were under, as well.” At this, Solona’s body seems to freeze. She can feel her heartbeat pounding in her ears and she cannot move. “It happens so rarely and usually nothing specific is said, but I want you to know that you spoke of your friend Jowan.” Her blood thunders. She wants to run; there would be nowhere to go. “You are close to him. I know. I do not like the idea of asking you to betray his confidence, but he’s broken the rules Solona.”

He puts his hand on her shoulder and she can’t help but look at him. He really does look remiss at his line of questioning. “Is he engaged in an affair with a lay sister?”

She feels his fingers squeeze, very lightly but meaningfully. She nods, miserable.

Irving sighs and drops his hand. She thinks he’s honed his skills at manipulating younger mages for years. “Sadly, this is not the worst for Jowan. We suspect he’s a blood mage as well.”

Blood mage? Jowan? She thinks back to the last classes they had together. He always excelled at lessons; he would have no reason to resort to blood magic, surely. She tells the First Enchanter as much.

“You’re a good friend to support him like this. But, we have some evidence. Not enough to formally accuse him, but some.”

She finds her voice, finally. “Jowan couldn’t be. I’ve known him for years. If he was dabbling in blood magic he would have told me.”

“Would you tell him, if it were you?”

The man has a point. She wouldn’t tell anyone. Not even her best friends. But . . . blood magic? Why? “What are you going to do to him?”

Irving stands; his long robs flowing around him in the slight breeze. She catches a faint whiff of spindle weed from the fabric. “I won’t accuse him before I know for sure. If I am wrong, and I truly hope I am, than the worst that’ll happen is a slap on the wrist for consorting with the lay sister. If he reveals himself as a blood mage however . . . well, I’m sure you can guess.”

Solona tries to tell herself that the shivering in her body is from the wind. That it’s not fear for her friend, _of_ her friend. “What I’ve told you is dangerous, Solona. I feel it is in your best interest, and that of the Circle really, for you to stay away from him. I’m sending you to war; you’re going to Ostagar to join the forces that the King has already started to build. You leave in two days.”

The sunlight seems to dim as Irving walks back to the tower, his gait purposeful and his back straight.

_-!-_


	9. Slide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally! With the sexin's. Kind of.

**_Chapter Nine_ **

That evening she looks over her possessions and considers. What does one bring, when they’re about to march away from the only home they’ve known for the majority of their life? Going to war. What a terrifying statement. Could she be able to face down enemies and strike them dead? She thinks not. She’ll only get herself killed and others along with her. Irving has a strange sense of punishment, it seems, sending her off to die for her knowledge of Jowan’s dalliances.

The thought that she’ll survive never crosses her mind.

She has a death sentence hanging over her head.

The laughter of Neria and Keili fills the room as the two appear in her doorway. She’s seen precious little of her friends in the last seven days. She may have plenty of time but they still have lessons. Their smiles lift her spirits and she greets them both with hugs.

“You’re never going to believe this, Lona.”

Neria always jumps to the best piece of gossip she can find. There’s no preamble with this one. “You said that before, you know, about my Harrowing and you were wrong.”

The elf poo’s and pah’s at her as she throws herself across Solona’s bed. Keili takes a seat at the vanity; the two of them are breathless with grins. “Well, you won’t have heard this one. You’re all cut off up here, you know. Would it kill you to come say hi? We had to talk our way past seven templars just to see you. Including that ginger one that hangs out in the library, hoping you’ll grace him with a smile.” Neria is teasing; Solona reddens anyway at the mention of Cullen. She’s been avoiding that particular templar after her time in the Fade.

“If there’s a point Neria, please feel free to come to it.”

The elf sticks her tongue out and instantly she’s forgiven. Solona can’t help but laugh at her friend’s antics. “Well, I was cleaning the boy’s dorms today, I hate getting stuck with maid duty, and I found a _letter_. For Jowan. I think I figured out why he’s been so absent minded lately.”

She pauses and cups a hand over her mouth as though she could stop the giggling. “I think he’s in love.”

Solona’s hand still, the fabric of one of her new robes she’s folding hanging from now-limp fingers. They know about the lay sister? _No!_ Irving will kill them, or make them tranquil. Or force their Harrowings and send them off to fight with her. A protective urge swells within her as she asks, delicately, “Do you know who the girl is?”

There is relief when the elf sighs and flops to her back in defeat. “No. Not a clue. But! This is fabulous. That ridiculous boy, in love! Imagine the hilarity; him waxing poetic and falling over himself. I tell ya, I hope I don’t move up here with you too soon. I wouldn’t want to miss the fireworks!”

“Oh Neria. Don’t be so cruel.” There’s laughter in Keili’s voice as well but a small amount of judgment. Keili subscribes to the more uptight and mainstream ideas of the Chantry’s ideas about love and mages. In specific the idea that mages _don’t_ love, not ever. Solona has argued with her before about policy.

At the top of the tower the bell tolls the hour and Keili jumps up. “Time for evening prayers. Are you two coming?” Solona is tempted to join but just shakes her head. Neria laughs at the suggestion and Keili glares at her for a moment before leaving.

This seems to be just what Neria was waiting for. She sits up and pulls a letter from somewhere in her bodice. “I found another note too. _This_ was sitting on your old bunk a few days ago.” She waves the parchment teasingly and Solona snatches it out of her hand. Her name is printed on the front in unsure letters. “Open it!”

The look Solona passes along to the elf says _not gonna happen_. It could be from Jowan, after all. And she has no wish to drag Neria into that problem. “I’ll read it later. You should really get back down stairs though.”

Dramatically, as she always does things, Neria rolls from the bed and comes to her feet. “If it’s from Cullen, I expect to hear all about it. He looked down right terrified when he carried you down from the Harrowing Chamber. Been moping around the feast hall too, always looking around. I take it you haven’t . . . consummated anything?”

“Get out Neria.” She has no malice in her tone but it brokers no argument. Neria leaves with a wink and a wiggle of her fingers.

Cullen . . . carried her here? She vaguely remembers someone holding her and the cold metal of their body. It must have been him. The soft voice that reassured her echoes in her mind. _You’re going to be okay_. She can feel the blush climbing up her neck at the thought of him . . . of her and him. She told him she didn’t want to lose his friendship.

The paper rips in her haste to open the missive Neria has brought and Solona curses her clumsiness before holding the pieces back together. It is short.

 _Solona,_

 _I hope you’ve recovered. I wanted to come to you, just to see if everything was okay but after what happened during your Harrowing I was afraid you wouldn’t want to see me. I’m sorry about your throat. I was frightened. I should have known you’d make it through._

 _I really do appreciate your understanding of the position I’m in but I miss you._

 _I’ll be at the library this week on overnight duty._

 _-C  
_  
There are smudges around that last line as though the writer had hesitated too long and too much ink had run from their quill. It doesn’t take a genius, or a fastidious researcher, to know that this letter is from Cullen and he has intentionally told her where he’ll be. She scolds him mentally; leaving a letter like this where she no longer sleeps . . . it’s a miracle it was only Neria that found it. She doesn’t dwell on that though. Instead, she considers his words again.

He wants her to come see him.

She should burn it. Really, she should. For both their sakes. She can’t bring herself to destroy it though; just the thought of him writing her like this makes her stomach flip. She folds the letter back up, mindful of the now multiple pieces, and buries it deep in her wardrobe.

With the perceived death sentence hanging over her head all of her earlier worries about ruining a friendship with him flies away. She will be dead soon, after all. She no longer sees the point in maintaining her distance.

She takes her time washing. The water, warm from her fire spell, feels oddly stimulating as it courses down her body. She uses a scented soap that Enchanter Leorah had presented to her a few days prior as congratulations on passing her Harrowing. It is Orlesian, the elf had claimed, and smells like flowers. She hopes Cullen will like it.

Her nicest robes are donned; she leaves off the small clothes. She wishes, as she brushes her hair, that she’d grown it out. Long hair is a sign of fertility and desirability according to the Lun of northern Antiva. Fertility is not so much an issue, but she could stand to look a little more womanly, she thinks.

Her footsteps are tentative as she makes her way down the stairs to the second floor. Midnight is just passed; the few men she passes standing duty don’t even acknowledge her. There is nothing they could say; she’s allowed to be out at this time of night. However, as she approaches the library, her steps slow. A moment of indecision hits her. What is she doing, really? She might not care about what’s going to happen in a year, she won’t be around, but Cullen will. Maker willing he’ll be around for a while.

Can she really do this to him? He cares for her, deeply. He might even love her. She thinks back to a week ago, before she’d gone into the Fade. He had kissed her with such a sweet innocence. Has he ever lain with a woman before? Most likely not. She could very well be his first love; how does one recover from a loss like that to a Darkspawn invasion?

She can’t do this to him. She needs to go, before he sees her. Before she fuels whatever hopes he might have. Solona is muttering to herself, calling herself foolish for even thinking this was a good idea.

Her feet turn her around.

And bring her face to face with the man himself. “Cullen!” He wears no helm. Rather than cold metal greeting her it’s his smile and his bright eyes that seem impossibly full of promise.

“You came. I . . . I didn’t think you would, but here you are.” He sounds breathless and pleased.

Well, shit.

The urge to flee is almost overwhelming. It’s becoming a frequent occurrence and it frightens her. She should be brave now, Harrowed Mage that she is. Cullen looks around and steps in close. When his lips brush hers, that wonderful tentativeness still present, she can’t help but sigh in happiness. The contact lasts for only a moment before he leans back from her.

She still has time to back out, she thinks. All the time in world, it feels like. She can end this and save him the heartache of losing her. The way he looks at her, with reverence and affection, is unmistakable, though. He wants _her_. Despite anything that she might be. Warmth pools in her stomach and an ache begins to fill her. She could bath in his sight forever.

They meet half way this time with mouths searching for an absolution, forgiveness, from this duel attraction. There’s so much between them and yet it is just them. Has only ever just him and her and this glide of lips against lips. She could love him; she could make him happy. Her hands slide up to his shoulders and it’s too much, all too much. The immediacy of her future is howling at her, still, in the back of her mind. She pulls herself away and draws air deep into her lungs. She really can’t do this to him. When he leans in to kiss her again she turns away. His face scrunches up in confusion; even this looks particularly appealing in its own way.

“What’s wrong?”

Solona steels her resolution. She must, at least, explain what’s happened to her, where she’s going. She has to make him understand why she can’t . . . can’t what? Love him? Kiss him? She might need answers herself about this predicament. “I have to tell you something. Important.” The hallway is still quiet but she doesn’t trust it. “But not here. Come on.” His gauntlet is cool in her hand as she pulls him into the library and back to her favorite corner.

He opens her mouth to speak but she shakes her head. She needs him to just . . . listen. “Irving told me there’s a war coming, another Blight.” His eyes widen and he opens his mouth to say something. Still, she signals for his silence. “He’s sending me to help the King’s army. He thinks my knowledge of the Darkspawn, probably all the time I spend reading up on the dwarves actually, could be helpful during the fighting.”

“But, you’re a _brand new_ mage. He can’t send you into a war. It’s ridiculous.”

She will not tell him about this being her punishment. Despite the arms that come up to hold her after her revelation, he is a templar. She can’t be sure he won’t make a fuss and get Jowan into more trouble. She doesn’t like withholding the truth; yet it is a necessity. “I can’t explain his reasoning but I have to accept to decision. I’m a mage of the Circle of Ferelden. I have to do as I’m bid.” The words of Duty spring into her mind. Cullen’s face drops at her description of herself.

“When do you leave?” It sounds like he’s choking on the words.

“Two days from now.”

Cullen looks beyond her, back into the library. With his thinking face on his face is closed, yet still so very handsome. And when he does that thing, with his lip, where he bites gently while working through a problem in his head . . . it impacts that ache in her core and it almost hurts how badly she wants him. Her eyes fix on the spot where his jaw meets his neck. The desire to taste the skin there is almost overwhelming.

“But, you’ll be back and then-“

“No, I don’t think I will be.” As serious as she’s ever been in her life, she shakes her head and she wants to cry. She’s too young to die, really.

Horror and denial flash in his eyes. “No. You’ll be fine. I know you will. You made it through your Harrowing. I was _there_. You won’t die. Maybe . . . maybe I’ll get assigned to go with you. I could protect you!” And that right there is why she thinks she might love him. Optimism at its most earnest. It’s a fair point though, she has to admit.

“That would . . . be wonderful. I don’t know if they’ll let you.”

“I’ll make Greagoir. He won’t have a choice. It’s my job to keep you safe.” Such conviction for her. Because of her. Solona presses her face to that spot she’s been eyeing and she slides her arms around his metal chest. “I won’t lose you. Everything is going to be okay.” He presses his lips to her temple; the contact makes her stomach flip again. “You’re going to be okay.”

Her lips meet his; _thank you for believing in me_. Their kiss deepens. One hand is raised; she cups his cheek. The small groan the springs from his throat is like fire in her blood. Gauntlets are discarded; he brings his hands up and around her waist. His touch is warm through her robes. There is far too much clothing and metal between the two of them.

Cullen backs her into a table and lifts her, settling her firmly on the wood and stepping between her legs. The dull bite of the metal at the tender flesh there only further drives her passion. She clamps down on his armored thighs and pulls him in closer. The contact there is delicious and she is the one that lets loose a moan; a sigh a happiness. She nods against his mouth as he shifts his hands to the front of her robes.

She is wet from this; she can feel it and the thought that it was him . . . just kissing and some rather innocent petting. This makes her head swim which makes her groan which makes him smile in response and unlace her bodice a little farther before exploring the skin he finds with delicate fingertips. Solona is _desperate_. She wants him. Inside of her. _Now._

As she opens her mouth to demand he take off his armor, she’ll be damned if she can figure it out with the mess that is her brain at that moment, the sharp steps of metal boots sound in the hallway. The noise doesn’t even really register with her until it’s almost in the door way to the library. They both hear, both understand it, the moment that the voice rings out, searching for him.

“Ser Cullen, why have you abandoned your post?” The sour tones of the Knight-Commander echo in the empty library. They freeze at the sound, still wrapped around each other as they are. _Please, just let him keep walking_ , she pleads with the Maker. Cullen’s eyes are wide with fear; she can’t even muster a smile of reassurance. Her eyes are full of terror as well. The steps stop at the door and then turn into the room. The two of them, even swallowed by the shadows, are still in visible. Solona watches over Cullen’s shoulder as Greagoir pauses in mid-stride when he sees them and she watches his face turn to fury.

“What are you doing here?” He does not yell.

Cullen disengages himself as delicately as possible; she wants to hold onto him. Hiding behind him here she’s protected. And _loved_. And hang Greagoir if he tries to take that away from them. This sudden determination vanishes at the unsure tones Cullen uses to try and explain why they’re here. Why he’s here, in a dark corner of the library, with her. Nothing of substance. Just stammering and Cullen truly sounds petrified.

Greagoir orders the both of them into the light and inspects them from top to bottom. Solona is still tightening the laces on her robe as she comes out behind Cullen. There can be no doubt in Greagoir’s mind as to what the two of them were engaged in.

“Ser Cullen.” Cullen straightens, back straight and eyes forward. “You are relieved from duty for the evening. Go back to the dorms. In the morning you will report to my office before breakfast.”

Cullen doesn’t even look at her, doesn’t say goodbye, as he marches out of the room. Solona watches him go, heaviness in her heart. Greagoir steps into her line of sight and that heaviness turns cold. “As for you. What do you think you’re doing, messing around with one of my men? We are not your friends; we’re certainly not around to be your playthings.” Now, _now_ , his voice rises. His face looms ever closer with each sentence. “We should have made you Tranquil when you first showed up on the doorstep and let you live your life re-shelving books.”

Quickly as she can see him, Greagoir reaches his hand back and strikes her across the cheek. Her head snaps back and Solona falls to the floor. She remains conscious, but only just. Her head swims. “I-“ It’s hard to think. She needs to come up with something quick. He could beat her to death and no one would ever say anything against him.

“You _what?_ You’re a failure and a murderer? That much is clear. You’re a whore? That much is clear! You’re sorry? You don’t look sorry. You look like a child whose toy has just been taken away. Petulant. That’s what you are.” He reaches down and grabs her by the front of her robes. With a tug she is dangling in the air now as his knuckles dig painfully into her upper chest. “I would kill you here, but you’ve already got a death sentence. Ostagar will kill you for me, if I’m lucky.”

One last sneer is the only warning she gets before Greagoir hurls her to his feet. Solona cannot find the will to talk back.

“You’re going to stay in your room until you depart. I’ll stand watch outside your door myself if I have to. Now, get up and get walking.” She is slow to rise and he just picks her back up again. With his hand at her back Solona is pushed out of the room and back upstairs.

 __

-!-


	10. Neria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character death. Tada!!!!

_Chapter Ten_

The road to Ostagar is long but so very pretty. Solona spends the entire twelve day journey with her eyes tripping over just how _green_ it is. The trees sing here, she realizes. The wind that whistles through the leaves and branches try to teach her the words to a song she was never supposed to learn. She does though. She sometimes sings along much to the amusement of the other mages with her. There’s seven of them total, including Wynne, the enchanter who is still trying to teach her how to heal. Silas has joined and Solona is very relieved.

His once stifling presence is now comforting in this open environment. It reminds her that no matter what, she has control now. She can contain the fire that’s been smoldering inside of her since she was a child. He tells her about his early days in the Circle, when she asks one night around the fire. She shouldn’t be surprised to learn that he, too, had many troubles controlling himself when his magic first appeared. Silas reassures her; she has grown into the ability that she was born with.

She thinks this is what it means to be a real mage. This community and fellowship, all of them responsible for each other. Depending on others has always been a weak point but she soon comes to understand that the only way mages ever survive is through cohesion. After the little troop of mages and templars make it to the crumbling fortress of Ostagar she sticks close to her own kind at first.

For the first week she pours over the texts that she’s brought. The Tevinter magic is complex, a longer arm of arcane that she’s used to seeing in common usage. The simplicity of the protection spells is disturbing, however. She expects the Imperium to be the land of complex magic and insane ritual, given their part in the origination of the Darkspawn. But, she finds chants that last a line and lists of ingredients for potions that call for three items at the most. When she shares this information with Silas and Wynne, who then share it with Uldred and the other few mages camped in their clearing she has a hard time convincing everyone that she’s done her research.

She has and she’s got the page numbers to prove it. Hypothetically, she tells them: with the size of the army the King plans to build, they need five mages away from the main battle running constant interfacing with the Fade and a handful with the troops, spread among the soldiers on the field to disperse the effects. With this set up, they should prevent all enemy spell casters from any sort of effectiveness.

If the spells work. She has more research to do. A trip into the Wilds, at the least, with an armed escort to see if they can find a skirmish to test with.

As she researches during the day she tries to spend her evening visit the other camps in the area. The army slowly builds, new groups arriving every few days with interesting stories of far off places. She spends her second week collection these tales and carefully transcribing them onto parchment. When questioned about her night time activates (wouldn’t she be better off sticking with the mages?) by Wynne, she asks the older woman to take the scrolls with her back to the Tower if she should die and give them to Keili. Keili will make sure the words are read by others, if only in the interest of research. Solona can tell Wynne wants to refuse, but she pleads with her eyes. The older mage agrees.

Her third week she learns how to dance. A collection of elven warriors, painted dark green, dances around a fire pit one night and she can hear the beat of eternity through their stomping feet. She’s at the edge of the circle when a boy about her age catches sight of her. The musicians, drumming and playing a type of whistle, continue the music as the boy pulls her into the fray. She’s spent time in this camp; they’ve come to like her silly questions and constantly teach her the words of their native language. This night they welcome her into their ritualistic movements and teach her other things.

Her robes are not conducive to the movements, not at all. She trips more than she can dance, it seems, but she’s smiling when she collapses at the edge of the fire, breathing hard. She’s pulled back up moments later and the boy pulls her in tight for a more . . . suggestive dance. The proximity to his hard body, and the thrill of the dance, are racing through her head and mixing with the memory of Cullen.

She is burning from the exertion. Mages don’t get to be this physically active. The boy eyes her prettily and she has to back away, hands raised. Has to take a couple of calming breaths. The boy seems to understand and moves over to another girl, one of his own tribe. The two twine themselves in supplication and Solona feels like she’s imposing now. Despite the thirty others engaged in the dance, these two make her warm. She leaves, her head swimming with visions of her and of Cullen and of his fingertips at her collarbone. The thoughts send her back to her bunk, shivering with the intensity. She tries to ease the ache within her but she can’t and in the morning she lights the camp fire a little too emphatically. The templar about to cook breakfast loses an eyebrow and Solona runs away. She has to thank the elves . . . for their kindness in sharing with her . . . she avoids camp for the rest of the morning and vows that she’ll stop thinking about Cullen.

The Grey Wardens appear during the third week at Ostagar. Thirty grave men who wear their occupation like a shield on their faces; initially she’s scared of them. They are, after all, meant to save the world from this Blight. Something like that is a hefty resume and she feels so very inadequate around them. They grow on her though, or maybe she grows on them, when they start to answer her tentative questions. Her _official_ reason for being at the fortress intrigues most of them and they share what knowledge they have of the Darkspawn. She keeps notes still and starts remember names.

Josef is her fellow historian; he’s younger than most and although he’s not a mage he seems to understand. When she tries to explain her views on the Maker most cut her off and tell her that she’s blaspheming; Josef listens patiently and adds his own thoughts. They become friends very quickly, she thinks. He reminds her of Shuul, especially with the way he approaches problems head on. He passes her off to others to instruct her in areas he thinks she’s lacking in: Eric teaches her how to hold a sword. Their leader gives her a few talks about self control.

Solona wonders if Silas hadn’t talked to the Gray Warden leader, a grave fellow by the name of Duncan, about instructing her. The two seemed to know each other from another time. She doesn’t get a chance to ask either. After a few weeks at Ostagar she learns what it’s like to face down Darkspawn and she throws herself into research, if only to keep from having to go out in the field again. The smell of their blood makes her want to vomit after she washes that one time.

Reading suits her just fine. She has a quiet place set aside outside the main circle of tents that she stays in with the other mages. With her back leaning against the stone that makes the outer wall of the fortress she can still keep an eye on what goes on in the main clearing.

Solona doesn’t think about Cullen. She can’t. Despite the rather dismal outlook on the rest of her life, _how many days until they really start fighting_ , she won’t allow herself to dwell. Making friends in this camp means that she learns about others. She gains incentive to protect lives. Save those that can be saved. Even the templars that came with them; she could save everyone. If she only reads more. Studies harder. Stops thinking about _him_. She’ll never make it back; thinking about him is useless.

One of the Wardens was almost a templar, Josef tells her. They share a meal, quick as they can because they can both feel the oncoming storm and the drive to learn as much as they can, and he nods over to a light haired man who polishes armor on the other side of the camp. She slides her eyes sideways to him and asks him why she should care. His smile is sly in return.

“Heard some rumors, is all. Why you’re here.”

Solona’s lunch turns to ash in her mouth. It’s not that she’s really all that ashamed of how she feels about Cullen. She just . . . doesn’t like thinking about that information passing around and used against her. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve got a job to do; that’s all there is, now.” She wonders when she’d gotten so bitter and . . . final. When she stands she glances over at the almost-templar. His face is honest; he looks a bit like Cullen. If she’s have thought about the Grey Wardens while she’d been at the Circle, seriously, she could have suggested the two of them run off and join together.

She doesn’t eat with Josef any more. She sits at her spot and reads. She watches as people come and go. Usually Duncan, every few days. He brings back someone new each time and she thinks _(hopes)_ that perhaps it might be Cullen one of these days.

She doesn’t think about Cullen. She _doesn’t_. Especially not that look of finality when Greagoir had walked in on the two of them. For sure she doesn’t think about the way he smiles when she asks him questions about the outside world and the tangents he could go on with the smallest opportunity. She certainly doesn’t lie in bed at night with her face burning and her hands buried between her legs remembering the soft sounds of pleasure he’d made when she’d bitten his lip while kissing him.

Three weeks after she arrives she knows that the time is finally coming. Silas pulls her aside and tells her to start making potions; she’s going to need them. He gives her directives, how to coordinate with the soldiers she’ll be stationed with. She has an entire troop of three hundred men to watch over. If she hadn’t tested out this magical barrier idea herself she’d have balked. Three hundred lives to keep safe. At least until the enemy made her their number one target. Darkspawn tactics are almost nonexistent but only fools leave an enemy spell caster alone. Josef had explained that one during her only real foray into the Wilds.

There’s an urgency building in her body and she stops sleeping for longer than a few hours at a time. She waits. Unable to even train, she sits. And waits. She wonders if this isn’t what a mother feels like before giving birth. Or perhaps she’s more the nervous father, unable to really do anything but hope for the best.

After four weeks, Duncan returns to Ostagar for the last time.

He has two women with him.

Solona can’t even begin to control the shout of happiness when she realizes that the one carrying a staff, the mage, is Neria. The two fall into one another’s arms with laughter and tears of relief and Solona can forget, for a few minutes at least, that they’re all about to die. Duncan and the other woman don’t even pause as they walk on by. Solona does not care; she is no longer alone.

“What are you doing here? And with Duncan?”

Silence, heavy with a serious intent, falls over her normally chatty friend and Neria looks away. She surveys the camp and only a small poke from Solona brings her mind back. “A lot happened after you left.” There’s foreboding in her tone and before she even speaks again Solona knows that it’s Jowan. That he’s been found out; him and that stupid lay sister.

“Jowan is a blood mage.” The way the elf’s voice drops indicates that she’s had some time, not a lot but some, to think everything through, and she’s come to accept this negative aspect about their friend. Solona wants to be surprised, she really does. But she can’t. These days nothing is positive; there’s no way it could be. “He disappeared from the tower. And I helped him. Helped him destroy his phylactery.” Neria looks away again, swallowing hard. “Greagoir wanted to kill us both. Lucky for me Duncan was there and he conscripted me.”

The elf laughs now and her mood lightens at the thought of the Knight-Commander. “You should have seen his face, Lona! It was priceless.” She screws her eye brows together and frowns. _“You can’t take her! She needs to be punished!”_ Neria’s impersonation of Greagoir is actually pretty good and Solona laughs along with her. “Oh Maker, what a riot. I mean, it’s not okay that Jowan misled me like that, _and all for a lay sister,_ but I guess its okay. Grey Warden Neria! Has a great ring to it! And . . . speaking of the lay sister, you _knew!_ How could you not tell me?”

Solona is about to answer when Duncan calls for Neria. “I better go. I think I need to go meet someone. I don’t remember his name. I’m so tired though; I need sleep. Never mind, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” The elf brushes a kiss across her cheek and is gone. Solona is glad to see that Neria is just as easily derailed as always. She doesn’t particularly want to answer her friend’s line of questioning.

In the elf’s absence, Solona wanders back over to the first to get ready for the evening meal. The sense of building urgency is screaming in her head. She feels sick to her stomach. Food is not really an option for her, not tonight.

_-!-_

She cannot sleep, not tonight. So, she is reading. The hour is not particularly late but most have retired to their own camps, preparing for the battle tomorrow. She prepares as well, ensuring that the spells she has memorized will be enough. _Nothing will ever be enough_. The steady footsteps of a fully armored man walking through camp brings her head up from the page she’s reading, _Darkspawn have no known origins: suspicions point to advanced blood magic_ , and for a moment Solona doesn’t know what she’s seeing.

A hand is hanging limply from the body the man carries. That almost-templar; he’s got a woman in his arms and a tragic look on his face. Solona almost ignores him to go back to her text. This passage could be important. Tomorrow she goes to war, _real war_. There’s something about the way the woman’s long brown hair flows across the metal arms that carry her though, loose and beautiful. The color; it’s too perfect.

She is on her feet; the ground she crosses is littered with stones and sticks that might trip her and she’s not wearing any shoes but she doesn’t care. The almost-templar hears her coming and tries to turn, tries to block the body he carries from her outstretched reach.

Her hand catches the tips of the woman’s fingers and Solona’s first thought is that the skin is cold. The almost-templar tells her to step back. This is Warden business. Solona’s hand travels up the arm, brushes back the hair from the woman’s face.

Blood. Everywhere. Dried around Neria’s mouth and nose. It’s splattered down the front of her robes and encrusted in the necklace her friend always wears. And Solona can tell. She can see.

Neria is not breathing. _Dead._

One of the Wardens pulls her off of the almost-templar and the dead elf he carries. They drag her away and their unforgiving metal hands pinch her skin; Solona kicks and screams _NO! NOT HER_! but no one is listening. No one is caring. She is the one that’s supposed to die in this place. She’s the one; not Neria. Never her friend. Never.

She thinks that the men and women camped in the valley below must be able to hear her cries of anguish. The Warden holding her shifts his grip and she’s free, running back. She can fix this! Wynne . . . Wynne taught her how to revive someone just yesterday; so long as there was still a spirit left to be brought back she can do it. If anyone could hold on, wait for help, it would be Neria.

She has no staff and does not care. Her magic is building as she moves closer. Her hands, pumping at her sides, start to glow blue. _She can save-_

The dispel the almost-templar throws at her when she enters his range throws her off her feet. And backwards. And away. She has to save-

Another blast drives any remaining energy from her body as she’s swarmed by templars. Real ones, big shining men with swords drawn. The damp skin of her face, traced with the tears of her sadness, is cold in the wind of this night. Duncan appears at the edge of the circle of shining men. The other woman who came in with Neria stands behind him. She does not look at Solona, instead watches the almost-templar disappear into the Warden Camp. Solona hates this woman at that moment. Whatever happened . . . this one had survived where Neria had not. The other two recruits are also absent.

“You could not have saved her. I’m sorry; she wasn’t strong enough.” Duncan’s words . . . he sounds full of regret. “Sleep. We will need you tomorrow.”

If there was any love in her heart for a Grey Warden ever, it is obliterated when he turns and speaks to the other woman. Duncan turns to the woman and reassures her; tells her that she did well, and that they have to go meet with the King.

Templar hands drag her to her feet.

Solona cannot stop crying.

-!-


	11. Fight

  
**  
_Chapter Eleven_   
**   


Whatever Solona has been expecting, this is not it. This maelstrom of confusion and chaos and _noise_ is trying to eat her and she hasn’t even come within twenty feet of a Darkspawn. The men around her; they’re hardened veterans and they’ve closed ranks twice now to repel waves of attackers. She hasn’t lost concentration once; her spell holds.

It actually holds.

The incoming spells from the Darkspawn warlocks are bouncing in every direction and never touching her troops. She is so full of jubilant victory that the last few months are brushed off of her like falling leaves. Of no substance other than a small crunch as they break apart under her feet, she has purpose.

Maybe, just this once, everyone will be okay.

The explosion from the tower at her back gives her pause. She glances over her shoulder and watches as the flames burst into the night sky and it’s so beautiful. That’s the signal, she knows. Although her troop hasn’t been overrun surely fielding more men on the side of _good_ is . . . well a _good_ thing. Right?

A tree crumples with an ear-shattering crunch and men scream from her left flank. One of the soldiers assigned to her personal guard pulls her out of the way just before a splatter of men rain down from the heavens. Raining men? What-?

The expressions; the faces of the dead men at her feet . . . its terror. Pure and unholy. She tries to see what could have struck this fear and flung the soldiers so far from the line of fighting. The man guarding her doesn’t bother to protect her from this sight.

When his eyes catch sight of the very large and very angry _OGRE_ bearing down on their troop, the man shoves her aside and tries pushing his way free of his compatriots; _have to get away get out how does this thing actually exist?_ Hands cold, heart petrified, Solona watches the monster bash through half her men before a shout across the battle field distracts it.

 _Duncan. And the Wardens._

 _And the King._

The golden armor of King Cailan is unmistakable. As is the bone crushing death he suffers at the hands of the ogre.

The flow of battle changes so quickly around her that she doesn’t have _time_ to think through the mess of her thoughts. Doesn’t have time to attempt a rescue of the King, _she should at least try_ , and she’s pushed back as the men around her disperse. Their retreat reveals the horrible truth of this attack; there are more Darkspawn that anyone had told her was possible. Their gruesome faces are twisted with something that is beyond emotion. They advance with a dark and evil purpose.

This must be what the Void is like; screaming and blood and death at every step. Most of her troops have fled or are lying motionless on the ground. Her eyes are fixed on the carnage in front of her. The reinforcements! Where are the reinforcements?

A soldier grabs her, turning her roughly, and pushes her back towards the fortress; _away. Go. Run. GET OUT._ When she stumbles at the base of the entrance, the soldier keeps on running. The blood of a thousand dead men swims in her vision. Or maybe it’s just her own blood; she realizes vaguely that the ground she’s landed on is covered in jagged edges and her hands are bleeding. Her knees too, through the fabric of her robes.

Quieter; the fighting is quieter. She doesn’t know much about martial things but she knows enough to realize this is VERY bad. She supposes that its time; _death comes to us all._ The tree line is over run. Her eyes search for the creature that will take her. _O Maker, I will sit at your right hand when you call for me. Call for me._

Instead, a wounded cry from the ground by her side, just a few feet away, draws her attention. Half-buried under a Darkspawn corpse, a woman soldier screams again in pain as she pushes at the body, freeing herself but still trapped. Solona can see that the creature’s blade has pinned the woman to the ground, through the shoulder; blood drips freely from a wound at her side as well. She needs help, _healing_ , badly.

Solona feels this moment. It spirals around her, holding her in time and away from all of the gore surrounding her. She is supposed to die. Right here, right now. But, she needs to save who she can. _Everybody lives._

 _Nobody lives. Not really._

After five weeks of chanting and expecting, death is here for her. It howls her name through the mouth of an entire invading army. Its heartbeat, the footsteps of her fleeing countrymen, pounding out _doom doom **doom**_ on this blood soaked earth.

Solona thinks. Moments. Fragments. Mother’s dying screams, the forever silenced brothers. Eyes of judgmental fellow apprentices. Swords of nervous shining templars, ready to strike her down for something she can’t comprehend and doesn’t know how to control. Cullen with his kind words and gentle eyes and his loving tone. The laughing yet vacant stare of Neria as she’s carried away, gone forever. How many have died around her in the last weeks? Can she join them, knowing what she’s been through? No.

Her will rises to meet the voices of the horde.

 _NO._

Hands still dripping with her own blood, Solona reaches down and pulls the sword free from the other woman’s body. They both scream and she replaces the cold metal with her touch, glowing blue and tinged with red.

 __

-!-

It’s later. Much later and far enough away from Ostagar that Solona that can finally _breathe_ without fearing something will hear her. Her hands work quickly. No more magic flows from her fingers, she has none left right now. Not after the escape. Rather, bandages are wound tightly around angry red slashes as she apologizes again to the woman she’s patching back together.

The woman’s face tightens with pain and her breathing is labored. The both of them should be dead. Both of them are thinking this as they shake with exhaustion and pain.

The woman’s eyes open wide and she gasps as Solona tightens the cloth a little more around her midsection. Solona places a calming hand on her forehead. She’s out of potions that could help the agony. She doesn’t even have a lyrium vial left for herself. “Just relax. I’m done for now.”

The woman nods and lies motionless, trying to calm her erratic heartbeat. Solona thinks she’ll be okay, that she’ll live. The wounds, while serious, have stopped bleeding. Her efforts at healing have saved at least one person; Wynne would have been proud. _Wynne!_ She hasn’t even considered the rest of the Circle and whether they made it out too. They might have; there were only two of them down on the field with the rest of the army. Most had stayed far above the main battle.

“My name is Marian Hawke. What’s yours?” The woman, Marian, snaps Solona out of her worrying and she looks back down. Blue eyes stare up at her, steadily. Despite being covered in her own blood, some of Solona’s, and that of the Darkspawn Marian‘s gaze is steady on her face.

They _hadn’t_ introduced themselves. They’d been too busy fleeing for their lives. “I’m Solona.”

“Thank you for saving me. I owe you my life.”

She’s never been good at accepting praise. Solona’s cheeks redden. “Just doing my job.”

Marian struggles to brace herself up on her elbows, hissing in pain the whole time. “Regardless; thank you.” Those assessing eyes look her up and down. “You don’t look too bad. Why were you just kneeling next to me on the field? Why weren’t you running for your life?”

Solona stands, and moves away from the woman on the ground. The cave they’re in is low, but opens back into the earth far enough that their small fire does not show light on the surface. Its dry too; she really had been lucky to get the two of them this far. Especially with the drain on her energy and the mostly useless Marian. They’d both been propped up by her staff by the time they’d fallen in here.

Lucky.

“Solona?”

She walks to the entrance. The night is quiet. Too quiet. There are no animals out; not on a night like this. The air she breathes still tastes like ash and death. Behind her, Marian shifts and curses softly under her breath. She rejoins her cave-mate.

“I was supposed to die. I didn’t really think there was much point in trying to run anymore; not with those monsters screaming at my heels.”

“You were _supposed_ to die?” Marian says this like it’s that most absurd thing she’s heard in days. “How were you _supposed to die?_ Do you have some way to tell the future or something?”

The mage shakes her head and drops down to the fire. It’s warm, warmer than she had intended to make it. “I . . . made a mistake. Withheld information from the First Enchanter at the Tower. Do you know about the Tower?” Marian nods but says nothing and allows her to continue. “He sent me away. He said I was supposed to help the war effort and I guess maybe I did. At least a little. But –“

“Did someone die because of you?”

Did anyone die? Not really. Except . . . Neria. Hanging from that almost-templar’s arms like a rag doll. If she’d have come forward sooner maybe the Circle would have done something about Jowan, before he dragged Neria into his scheming. Maybe they could have . . . oh Maker. It was all her fault.

“Did they?”

Again Solona’s wandering thoughts are interrupted by Marian. “Doesn’t matter. I was in the wrong and I was sent to war. I wasn’t supposed to survive.”

“And who told you that? Whose decision was it that you die?”

Well, now, that’s actually a good question. It had been Irving, hadn’t it? When he’d told her that he knew about Jowan and had handed down her sentence. No, that wasn’t right. He hadn’t come out and said anything about her death. Then Greagoir? Not him either. Despite his seething anger at Solona for being with Cullen he’d just hoped that she’d die.

Has it been her? Has she convinced herself that she was going to die? Yes. She has. Alone in her room and full of despair at the idea of her friend being a blood mage. She has been mentally leading herself to the slaughter since she watched Irving walk out of that garden. Something flickers in her chest, heavy with despair. Why?

“I think it was me.” After the last few weeks; her terrible Harrowing and the loss of Cullen combined with the massive defeat of the battle this day Solona feels like a complete failure. And now, she’s realized that she’s essentially been having suicidal thoughts without even knowing it. Her analytical mind wants to explode. She desperately wants to cry.

“Good thing I was there, then, bleeding to death and just waiting for you to help me.”

A laugh breaks the heavy mood; Solona wipes her eyes and glances over at Marian. The other woman looks more comfortable now and is smiling.

“Good point. You probably saved my life tonight as well.”

Two women sit in a cave in the northern part of the Korcari Wilds. Both are covered in blood and both are grinning in the face of defeat and death. One turns to the other and says, “You saved my life.”

The other shakes her head. “No, really, you saved mine.” There a beat of silence before one hands the other a piece of bread and they get down to the business of becoming friends.


	12. Fughett

_**Chapter Twelve** _

“What do you think?” Two sets of shrewd eyes peer through foliage down into a clearing. The mass of Darkspawn they watch are ignorant of the two women in the bushes. They aren’t too many, fifteen at most and the majority are grunts. Not a magic user among them.

“I don’t like it, especially not without mana.” Solona flexes her fingers at her side, praying to feel that spark of energy. None springs forth and she frowns yet continues to observe the group.

Marian mutters under her breath, something about damned Darkspawn and being hungry. Solona can feel her stomach tighten at the mention of food. They’ve been walking for three straight days with nothing more substantial than berries.

“Well, we can always go around them. It’ll take a day or two to detour, however. I’m actually sort of familiar with this part of the Hinterlands; there’s a small hamlet my family lived in for a while a few years back. Fughett. If we can make it past these creatures we’re only a few hours out. We can resupply before the last leg to Lothering.” The rogue seems to be reasoning her way through this logical puzzle and Solona doesn’t bother to interject. Other than her ability to notice just about _everything_ she’s useless without magic.

“No point though. We _can’t_ make it through. There’s no way the two of us, well really just you, can fight. You’re still recovering and I-“

“I know, Solona. Let me think for a moment.”

She waits, patiently, for Marian to consider all of their options. When the other woman sighs heavily and moves the branch she’s holding back into its place, Solona knows they’ll have to detour.

Mage and rogue both back away from the clearing and are turning to retreat when a war cry breaks through the trees on the opposite side of the Darkspawn. They both whirl back and watch as the raiding party is systematically attacked from two sides by men painted with a white substance that Solona doesn’t recognize.

“Who the hell are they!?” Marian’s voice is no longer concerned with stealth and the two walk closer to the fighting. The group is small, only a handful, but fierce. Loud shouts ring through the woods. A few of the Darkspawn flee away from the men, towards Solona and Marian, only to be cut down by the rogue without mercy. From the far side of the camp, the tallest of the fighter watches the pair pick their way through the dead bodies.

When they arrive in front of the men, Marian’s eyes widen. “You’re Chasind! What are you doing so far into the Hinterlands?” Solona’s eyes go wide as well as she takes in the fierce expressions on the fighters faces. She’s heard of the Chasind in passing only when reading up on the history of Ferelden. The men standing in front of them shift and move closer. One of them still crackles with the energy of his magic, his shoulders covered in the pelt of a woodland creature.

The men do not respond, however. The mage, Solona is positive that’s what the man with the fur is, looks them both up and down and turns to go. “Wait! Do you have any food?” Marian is starting to sound desperate now. The group confers with one another in a language Solona can’t decipher before a bag is thrown at the women’s feet. She tries not to fall on the sack but she hasn’t really eaten in so long.

They find bread and a type of cheese that is unfamiliar to both. Solona eats and eats, dismissing Marian’s warnings to go slowly and allow her stomach to adjust to the food. The rogue just shakes her head and starts to dig through the Darkspawn’s gear. Solona watches, cheeks puffed and a song humming softly from the back of her throat.

A flash of blue draws her attention, arching through the air, and her hand rises to catch the vial Marian throws at her. “There. Now you can start a fire.” Lyrium. Solona finishes her food and uncorks the potion. She smells it; can’t be too careful when dealing with Darkspawn. The label on the bottle is written in the steady script of a diligent potions maker. She drains the contents and takes a deep breath in preparation for the mana that it’ll provide.

She waits. And waits some more. Marian is still digging through the Darkspawn gear littering the area. She finds a locket, which she sticks in her bag. A few coins join the jewelry accompanied by muttering about monsters carrying currency. Solona can feel nothing.

There’s no warming in the pit of her stomach like she’s used to and certainly no feeling of renewal that also follows a lyrium potion. Her hand opens and she wills flame to jump from her fingers.

She must look distraught. Marian pauses in her task to throw her a questioning look. Solona shrugs and sighs. Perhaps the potion was corrupted after all. There’s no sign of harm from ingestion. It’s possible, she thinks, that it was just an old batch of lyrium potion. She’s heard and read about such a thing happening.

“No luck?” Solona shakes her head at Marian. The other woman straightens. “Well, let’s get moving then. If we’re lucky we can make it to Fughett before the sun goes down.” The two pack what remains of their gifted rations and disappear into the tree line once more.

_-!-_

Fughett was surely a beautiful little town. Mostly wooden buildings and charming paddocks for the cows kept there. Solona shakes her head in remorse as they approach the smoking remains of Marian’s former home town. The rogue’s knuckles are white; her grip shakes slightly at the image of the town razed. “Darkspawn.” It is a curse upon their tongues they use freely, daily, now.

There are corpses freely littering the ground; human and monster alike. The pair approach from the south, covering their faces and mouths against the dirt in the air and the smell of death. As they near the square in the center of the town, a keen wail is heard and they both see the shadows in the husks of the buildings. Marian’s hand on her arm draws Solona behind the other woman. The rogue brings both daggers up and falls into a defensive stance naturally.

They are braced for the worst Darkspawn to come pouring down on them. Rather, motley crews of women and children, their faces smudged with black and red, filter out into the open courtyard. A child cries, its mother allowing it this sound, now. Now that the two newcomers do not pose a serious risk. Old men, hobbled and looking broken, follow last and soon the inhabitants of Fughett, those that still live, stand clustered around Marian and Solona.

Solona can’t help the tears that spring to her eyes at the sight of the townsfolk. They look devastated and without a hope in the world. The small child cries out once more and its mother tuts as she holds the squirming infant closer to her chest. She notes that there isn’t one man left in the group between the ages of sixteen and forty.

An old woman, holding herself up with a gnarled cane, steps forward. “We have nothing to offer you, travelers. As you can see, we have nothing to offer ourselves.”

Marian is striding across the cobblestones, her blades going back to the scabbards on her back. When she reaches the old woman there’s a long stretch of silence in which the two size each other up. Without warning the crone’s arms jump forward and pull Marian into a tight hug. Solona almost jumps at how quick the motion is but she relaxes when she realizes that Marian is hugging back. And . . . crying?

She approaches the two; the townspeople start to come closer as well. When she’s within ear shot, Solona can hear the two embracing whispering between each other. She can’t really discern what they’re saying. She notes that the old woman seems to be scolding her friend and that Marian is just smiling sheepishly and nodding, demurring to her elder.

Marian introduces Solona to the group. The rogue knows just about everyone and as the polite greetings are made the faces seem a little brighter, a little less run down. The old woman, greeting Solona with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, says her name is Beloix. The name sounds Orlesian.

Few structures still stand in the town, but Beloix leads the pair to the biggest; the Chantry. It survived the worst of the burning; the pile of bodies set off to the side shows that it was saved through massive bloodshed. Solona commits the town, and its inhabitants, to memory. She’d like to save this place in her mind for when she gets back to the Tower and back to her notes. If the notes survived Ostagar, of course.

“A big passel of creatures came through and just wiped us out; husbands and fathers and sons. All gone, now. We’ve been holed up for about a day or so.” Her words are pained, but Beloix has a clarity that Solona thinks she would have lacked in a similar situation. The old woman has been through wars before, this much is obvious. “What fighters we did retain went after the remaining monsters. Haven’t heard from them.”

Marian looks around the Chantry with its tumbling ceiling and the desolate humans that huddle together, more for support than for warmth. Her mouth is tight and her brow is furrowed. Solona knows that this is Marian’s worrying face; the rogue is deep in her thoughts and they aren’t pleasant. When she turns back to Beloix she’s blinking away tears. “Why are you still here? Why not go to Lothering, or even up to Denerim. Surely this won’t be the last Darkspawn raid. The King’s army was defeated; there’s nothing holding them back now.”

Beloix nods sadly. “Aye. We’re aware. You two aren’t the first of Ferelden’s troops to come slinking up from the Wilds. Not two days ago we helped along a trio, and before that a husband and wife. They didn’t look too worse for the ware but the two of you . . . Maker, child. When was the last time you slept?”

A hand is raised to her head as Marian fixes her hair, rather self consciously. “Leave off Bel. Poor Solona is out of magic and I’m still recovering from a nasty wound. I got stabbed, right here.” She points to her shoulder and Beloix tuts at her. The banter makes Solona smiles and reminds her of some of the older mages at the Tower. Live with someone long enough and anything is possible in conversation.

“That’s neither here nor there. Let’s get you two something to eat and a place to sleep. Maybe a bath, too. We should be safe for a while yet; like I said we haven’t heard back from our men out the in the woods. They’d have let us know if we had more trouble coming.” Beloix doesn’t mention leaving Fughett and Marian doesn’t push. Solona trails after them both as they head to get food.

 __

-!-

Solona sinks into the warm depths of the tub with a very contented sigh. She submerges herself entirely, allowing the water to wash over her head and she stays down as long as her lungs will allow. She feels weightless and free; the horrors of war are forgotten as the red staining her skin slowly lifts and dissolves.

She needed this, she thinks. Relaxation. She can feel something, her energy, poking around at the base of her neck. She doesn’t have the ability to produce yet, but it’ll return. Tomorrow she might very well awaken to her bed on fire, once more. She kind of hopes she does; she misses her magic. Desperately. Without it she is empty on the inside, despair filling the holes that her ability has filled for the majority of her life.

The door to the washroom bangs open and she jumps, water sloshing over the edge of the wood. She relaxes at the sight of Marian’s smile and she leans back again. “Leave some warm water for me too!”

And just like that, Solona’s relaxing soak is ruined and over and damn the rogue. She can’t hold onto the irritation for more than a moment though because Marian is brimming with a giddy joy; back among people she knows the hardness that Solona has seen in her eyes has lessened. She looks like a girl of only sixteen; flushed with the excitement of youth.

Solona lets her chatter and finishes washing the blood from her hair. It’s good to be clean again. As she steps from the tub, Marian is there to hand her a towel and they switch places. Solona can’t think of a whole lot to say, much of the rogue’s experiences are far from her scope of knowledge. She listens, instead, and allows the gaps in Marian’s history to fill with the memories of happier times.

That night the two women are treated to real bedding and their first good sleep since they left Ostagar behind them. In the morning they awake to find the people of Fughett packing. Blinking, they enter the sunny courtyard and both watch as Beloix directs the flow of movement with an authority born from years of teaching. The old woman waves them both over when they’re noticed and they join the fray.

“We talked about your suggestion, about going to Lothering. You’re right about there being more Darkspawn coming. We don’t want to be here when they arrive.” And just like that, Marian and Solona find themselves leading the column of battered people back into the Hinterlands and towards Lothering.

The pace is slow but the companionship is good, Solona initially thinks. She finds a pair of old men talking about, of all things, the contact they’ve had with dwarves and she jumps into the conversation whole heartedly. It doesn’t take the men long to start joking around with her; mage that she is. Her knowing about dwarves is an oddity to be sure. They’re the ones that let it slip that the Hawke family left Fughett under suspicious circumstances ten years prior. An incident with the father, they say, out in the woods with the two youngest children. The men aren’t all that clear on what actually happened but it sounds to Solona like one of the kids led to the father’s accidental demise and the family fled afterward.

 _Magic_ , they said. Magic killed the old man and set the family to flight. Their story hits a little too close to home for Solona. She catches sight of Marian, walking at the head of the group, and wonders if the tale is true. She had mentioned two younger siblings but had never talked about her father. Solona files the information away in her head for a later time and moves away from the men. She doesn’t like their insinuations about mages and being troublesome.

Towards mid-day the convoy stops to eat and this is where the group finds out about the severity of the Darkspawn invasion in the wilderness of Ferelden. The coming Blight swoops down on the people with a vengeance, pushing from the tree line with a fury that matches her experiences at Ostagar. Without magic, she keeps close to a wagon, and the terrified ox that pulls it. She holds tight to her staff. Marian is shouting orders, trying to spur those willing into battle. Women and children hold shaking swords to the hulking monsters and a few of them are successful.

Most of them are not.

Solona uses her staff as a weapon, not with magic but with the might of terror and the will to survive. She takes down a few Darkspawn with wide arching swings and she’s lucky. So very lucky. Without her magic, she is not a clear threat. Marian is, though. The rogue seems to have regained much of her stamina during their brief stay in Fughett and she slaughters the majority of the enemy by herself.

When the attack ends, there are only a handful of dazed survivors, Solona among them. Carts burn and women weep. There are no crying children to silence anymore; the two that have made it are too scared to make a sound. Solona finds them and pulls them from behind the rock they’ve used for cover.

There’s no sense in dawdling.

Marian gathers those left and calls out for Beloix. The few left standing search for a few minutes, finding the twisted body of the old woman covering the infant that had announced Marian and Solona’s arrival in Fughett just the day before.

Marian spits on the ground next to her old teacher and curses. Solona feels like she must do something, anything, to help. She kneels next to Beloix and closes the woman’s eyes. Head bowed and voice hushed, she recites the Maker’s blessing, asking that the woman be accepted into the Golden City. The caravan is quiet around her.

When she rises, Marian appears at her elbow. “Come on. We can make Lothering by nightfall, if we hurry.”

No one needs additional incentive. Lothering will be safe, they think. Lothering will protect them and allow them to properly mourn the family and friends they have lost.

 __

-!-


	13. Haven

_**Chapter Thirteen** _

The night is calm, the first of its kind since before the battle. Gentle winds pick up the edges of her clothing and Solona leans her head against the stump that’s become her back rest. The fire is warm, their bellies are full, and she can almost forget that earlier their little band of travelers was cut to ribbons.

The people of Fughett, those few that remain, have made their own campfire a stone’s throw away from where she and Marian rest. She can see their shapes, really just shadows from here, moving around the clearing as they prepare to bed down for the evening.

Stopping for the night had not been in the plan, at least not according to Marian. However, they were still hours from Lothering when the townspeople voiced their exhaustion and the pair from Ostagar were helpless as weary bodies started dropping down to rest.

The fire in front of her crackles and a shower of sparks flies into the air. She itches to feel that feeling, that pop of power, fly from her fingertips but her hands remain useless. Marian sees her flex her grip and passes over a jug of water.

“Strange that you’d still be recovering, isn’t it?”

Solona looks down at her free hand and contemplates the skin there. There are several long, pink lines from her injuries that are still healing. “Strange, but I don’t think it’s unheard of. I’ve read of a few instances where a mage has been struck powerless for an extended period of time following a particularly strong burst of magic. I’m sure it’ll come back. Eventually.” She says this for her sake as she does for the rogue’s.

“So, life in the Tower. You’ve never really talked about it.” Leave it to Marian to jump into topics with no preamble.

Solona drinks deep from the jug before handing it back. She can feel sleep tugging gently at her. “What do you want to know?”

“Is it really as bad as I’ve heard? My father used to tell horror stories.” Solona glances up at Marian, noting the tightening around the other woman’s lips and the faraway look on her face.

“I don’t think I would say it’s terrible. I’m sure there are better places to be but it serves its purpose.” She thinks about Cullen, and smiles. No, the Tower hadn’t been a terrible place for a long while. Despite the other templars, like Emic and Greagoir. Despite losing Shuul and her Harrowing. Despite these things, she still loves her home for the peace it gives her and the good things it contains.

“Now that’s an interesting smile.” Marian laughs and rests her knees on her elbows. “Let me guess . . . there’s a man. And he makes everything better.”

Solona can feel her face heating up and she knows she’s turned bright red. She doesn’t bother denying the rogue’s words though. She feels comfortable enough around her new friend to open up. “His name is Cullen. And it’s complicated.”

“Ahh, those are the best ones to have around. They’ll keep you on your feet. Trust me, I know.”

“Oh really? Care to share?”

Marian gives her a wink and a smile. “Not a chance. I’m hoping he’ll be waiting when we get back to Lothering. I wouldn’t want to jinx anything by blabbing about it now.” The jug is raised again. Passed between the two of them. “Cullen, eh? What’s he like?”

She closes her eyes and allows the image of the man to rise in her mind for the first time in days. “Well, he’s a ginger. Short curly hair. Kinda soft, but not really. Green eyes. I think. Sometimes they look light brown. Mostly green though. Ummm, about this tall.” Solona holds up a hand in the air, as though she could legitimately gauge Cullen’s height while sitting.

“No no. Not what he looks like. What is _he_ like?”

Oh. “Oh. Well, he’s not like the others. He’s nice and kind and really smart. I mean, really smart. I’ve got a good head on my shoulders, most of the time, but he knows more about the world than I think I could ever imagine. He joined up at sixteen, I think he said. Sometimes, when we’re alone, he’ll just break into a sort of rambling description of the places he’s been and the things he’s seen. Once, he was telling me about Denerim-“ Solona pauses and takes a drink.

“Woah, wait. Cullen was an _apostate?_ He must have been quite the mage to avoid detection for so long, and in Denerim of all places.”

She snorts in surprise and manages to swallow her water improperly. She’s sputtering and coughing when Marian reaches over and pats her on the back, hard. “What?!” She sounds panicky and high pitched.

“Did I say something wrong? He didn’t get picked up until he was sixteen, right?”

Solona shakes her head, clearing the last of the water from her windpipe. “No . . . Cullen isn’t . . . I mean to say he . . . oh, blast it. He’s not a _mage._ ”

The crickets seem to grow exponentially louder as Marian stares at her. It looks like horror and confusion until the rogue lets out a bark of laughter and dissolves into loud guffaws. Solona doesn’t particularly like being laughed at and she pulls her knees in tighter to her chest. Marian keeps going. Solona hides her blush by taking another drink, this time avoiding the choking part.

“All right, that’s enough!” She glares over the lip of the jug. Marian is wiping tears from her eyes.

“’m sorry. I just . . . if he’s not a mage, then he’s what? The laundry boy? A tranquil? Not a templar, for sure.”

The mage blushes even harder.

“Maker take me. He _is_ a templar, isn’t he?” She’d been so sure that the honesty of her feelings, and of his, wasn’t something to be ashamed of but her friend makes her feel so guilty. “Oh Solona. I should have known you’d be into doomed relationships.”

“It’s not doomed. I think I love him.” She can’t think of a better come back. Marian places a hand on her shoulder when she sees how upset Solona is.

“He must be quite the man, then. And he’s lucky.” She squeezes Solona’s shoulder and shakes her a bit, forcing the mage to look her in the eye. “Seriously. Lucky. You’re an amazing person. The last few days have shown me that much. And I hope, with all that I am, that he treats you right because so help me Maker, if he doesn’t, I’ll turn aside the Blight to come to the Circle and kick his arse.”

Friends. This is what friends are for; Solona has almost forgotten in the wake of all that’s happened among her group at the Tower. In this moment, she’s reminded of Neria and the pep talk she’d given about Cullen. Friends have each other’s backs, even as they’re poking fun at one another. She is lucky, truly, that the rogue had been bleeding to death at Ostagar. They’re both lucky.

“Thank you, Marian. Truly.”

“Oh, don’t get all serious on me now. Get some sleep; I’ll wake you for watch in a few hours.” Solona retreats to her bedroll, recently acquired during the exodus from Fughett. She mulls over Marian’s words and falls off to the Fade with visions of Marian pulling the Tower apart stone by stone to find Cullen.

 __

-!-

The road to Lothering is littered with the dead. Solona holds up the edges of her robes as the small group gets off the Imperial highway. Below them, the city of salvation is abuzz with activity. They can see fire pits burning and tents pitched everywhere. To the mage it looks like the whole area is swarming with ragged people and she thinks that this cannot be the answer. Too many people stuffed too close together. The few refugees at her back will be lost and adrift in this mess.

Marian seems to have similar thoughts. She stops at the foot of the steps leading into town and turns to her former neighbors. “Lothering appears to be overwhelmed. It may be best if you folks keep going; to Denerim or perhaps to Redcliffe.”

The people bristle at the suggestion. “And what about you, Hawke? Where will you go?” The loudest of all is the childless woman. With no infant to hold, her arms hang at her sides. “Will you lead us from our homes only to abandon us when we reach the most convenient destination?”

Voices rise. One of the old men from earlier pushes to the front and pokes a finger into Hawke’s face. “Your family has always caused problems with our people. We left Fughett because you told us to and you led us to slaughter! And now this!” He waves a hand dismissively. “Run away again, Hawke. Run.” The people move away, towards a templar directing refugees.

Beside her, Marian sighs and hangs her head. “No gratitude, let me tell you.” She tries to sound funny, making light of this, but Solona can tell the man’s remarks have cut deep. The rogue turns her sad eyes to the other woman. “Well, how would you like to meet the family?”

Solona tries to smile and assure her friend that everything will be okay. “I’d love to.”

Marian leads her down into the maelstrom that is Lothering. The press of people is almost too much for her; she can smell the fear and hopelessness wafting off the lot of them and it seizes something in her chest that could have been her courage. Marian takes her by the hand as she guides them through the worst of the mob and the mage is glad for the anchor. Glad to know that she’s not alone in all of this.

They cross the river and the air clears along with the refugees. Between the alehouse Marian points out and a lay sister calling for those who are injured, Solona can see the burnt remains of fields and outlying buildings. Where the walk to Ostagar had been crisp and so very _green_ , the buildings of this town look that much worse. She remembers crossing through this hamlet on the way to the battle, almost two months prior. It is no longer the happy trade center. It makes her quake violently and she refuses to let go of Marian’s hand until they stop in front of the entrance to a house.

With a quick squeeze, her hand is released and Marian opens the door. She takes a few steps in and calls out for her mother. What answers her is a happy bark and the rogue is bowled over by a flash of brown attached to a rolling tongue. A mabari. Solona takes a step back despite the clearly friendly nature of the beast. Marian wrestles with the dog, a series of pinning moves that are quickly countered. The sight makes her laugh. The shadows of the house produce an older woman as well who sees only Solona and the dog holding down another person. At her side, the woman grasps a knife.

“Who are you? What do you want?” At her words, the mabari springs back and turns. The dog seems to be grinning as it gives one sharp bark. Marian sits up and the woman in the doorway gasps. “Maker be praised! You made it!”

She stands in the open air and watches the warm greeting of Marian and her mother. It has to be her mother, Solona thinks. The two are so similar its painful. That something in her chest is grabbed again; this sort of interaction between parent and child is a distant and painful memory for her. From the side of the house, a young man with a large sword approaches. His armor speaks of bloody battle and Solona finds herself backing away even further. His face wears an expression of violent intent and it’s not until he sees Marian embracing her mother that his blade lowers. He scowls now. The brother, then. Another clear family resemblance.

Marian greets the young man by Carver and pulls him into an unwilling embrace. She holds on longer than Carver seems to want; when her brother tries to push her away she holds on tighter. “I’m glad you made it out alive as well. I’ve been worrying all the way from the Wilds that you died with the rest of the army.”

“No, _dear_ sister. Alive and well and taking care of the family you took long enough getting back to.” There’s accusation in Carver’s words that makes Solona wonder what conflict lies between the siblings. Marian seems to shrug off his negativity though and glances back at her.

“I was delayed by injury. Which brings me to my companion. Mother. Carver. I’d like you to meet Solona, a mage with the Circle who patched me up enough to get me home. Solona, this is my mother, Leandra, and my baby brother, Carver.” Two sets of blue eyes, eerily similar to Marian’s, fix on Solona and she squirms under the attention.

Leandra steps forward and sweeps Solona into a hug. The woman is soft with motherly affection and age. There is hint of something familiar as well; she smells like baking. “Thank you, Solona, for getting my daughter back to me. We owe you a great debt.”

“Please, I really was just doing my job. Saving what could be.” She still looks to the ground and shakes her head against embarrassment. “Your daughter saved me as well. I would think that we are even between the two of us.”

“Oh, of course she did. She can’t go out for a walk without trying to save the world.” Carver spits the words at the three women and goes back into the house. Leandra doesn’t seem to notice but Marian watches his back as he departs. Solona has never seen her friend look so irritated.

“You two must be famished. Come in and I’ll find something to eat.” Leandra is already heading to the kitchen when she calls back to the two women on the doorstep and they enter.

Solona wonders, over the course of the next hour, at the interesting dichotomy in the house. Leandra putters around the kitchen and constantly asks about the welfare of the children. Carver is disgruntled and surly when questioned. A third child, Bethany, is charming and inquisitive about her life at the tower. Solona answers what she can about the Circle; Bethany is an apostate and she’s just as curious about her life outside the Circle. Her expectations about apostates, ruthless and evil, is torn apart by the younger woman as they talk. And talk. After a particularly lengthy discussion on the irritation of true arcane bolts, Carver pushes away from the table and stalks off into the depths of the house.

Marian dismisses her brother and opens up in front of the other women in her family. She has been calm and collected these last days as they’ve fled Ostagar but here, where she is comfortable, Solona is pleased to see that her friend is still somewhat girlish. At one point a man is discussed and Marian blushes bright red; Solona is so very tempted to question, especially when Leandra mentions he’s still been asking about the oldest daughter. She keeps silent, however, and just enjoys the banter.

When the sun finally sets it feels like it takes away all of the panic of the fight. Solona goes to sleep that night with a smile on her face.


	14. Rylock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the extremely long wait between updates. I have finally conquered all of the evil papers for class this semester and can now apply my writing skills to more worthy endeavors. Mainly the search for lots of hot Cullen and bad ass Amell.
> 
> Cullen will return. Shortly. I promise and swear. Solona is almost home. Almost.

It does not take the family long to decide they have to get out of Lothering. Solona remains silent as the matter is discussed over the breakfast table the next morning. Having just arrived, she thinks another good night’s sleep in a safe house is in order, but Marian is insistent, and persuasive, when she brings up the impending threat. They had been attacked by Darkspawn not two days earlier. The templars will not be able to save this town.

So, they will leave. They will pack a few items; Solona trails Marian around the house as the rogue collects important personal belongings. As the larder is raided for the best food to bring, Marian begs Solona to join them. And she is so tempted. The Hawke’s are an adventure waiting to happen. An interesting set of circumstances that will probably take her on a grand tour of Thedas. Oh, the things she could learn.

But, she says regretfully, she has to figure out what’s happening with her magic. She’s still useless; hasn’t felt anything since healing Marian on the battle field. She needs the Circle, needs their information.

It looks like a hard pill for the Hawke’s to swallow, especially Bethany, that a mage would willingly return to that _prison_. The family cannot convince her against her path however. As she stands on their porch, feeling frightened and alone again, Marian presses a necklace into her hands. The metal is cool to the touch and twisted, almost an entire circle. “My father used to wear this when he felt threatened. He was a mage too, said it brought him comfort. Please, take it with you and please, be safe.”

Solona doesn’t know what to say. This is the first real present she’s ever been given outside of the Tower. She puts the necklace on and the sense of calm that comes over her is indeed comforting. “I wish I had something to give you too, Marian. But I don’t, so I will just say thank you for helping me.”

The two embrace, tightly. An escape from certain doom and a week on the road has created in them close friends. Another first since Marian is no mage. More words are whispered between the two of them. Safe journey. Let me know where you end up. Don’t forget to live. They’re both smiling and still hugging when Leandra, Carver, and Bethany join them on the porch.

“If we’re leaving, let’s go.” Even Carver’s negativity makes Solona smile wider with the familiarity of this family. Quick hugs and thanks are exchanged with the other women and Solona turns to go.

From the river, on the bridge, a voice rings out crying, “That’s her! That’s the apostate!” The word sends a shiver through the family and they look to find one of the gossiping men from Fughett leading a group of templars to the five of them. The man’s hand is raised, finger pointed, as he calls out Bethany. He must have remembered the youngest mage of the family.

Without thinking, Solona looks back once more at the family, saying, “Go! I’ll stop them. Be safe, Hawkes.” She doesn’t wait to see if the family listens, just pushes forward to the man and the templars. Her hand pulls her staff free and she holds it at her side with determination. She must look as intimidating as possible; must make herself the biggest threat. Sans magic she fears she just looks ridiculous is ill-fitting robes, holding a gnarled tree limb.

The effect is instant when she straightens her arm, bringing the staff in front of her. The templars, six in all, fan out with their swords drawn. The leader is a woman and the woman is yelling orders to her men. When Solona moves within range the stern voice tells her to drop her staff and put her hands up.

Solona desperately wants to check to see if the family has fled but she will not give the templars a reason to go looking for them if they have. She takes her time lowering her staff. By now the templars are on three sides and quickly moving to block the fourth. Strangely she is not intimidated. They cannot kill her; she has done nothing wrong and she is no apostate.

The possible intent is there in their eyes though. She thinks that they don’t know she’s innocent; they’ve only been told that she is guilty. The thought chills her. The wood staff clatters to the ground as she releases it.

Vaguely, surrounded by the shining metal, she notes that the gossiping man has abandoned the group and is still running around, yelling about apostates. The templars have caught their pray, however, and pay him no further mind.

“To the ground, Apostate!” She kneels, carefully and mindfully of her still healing wounds on her knees. She holds her arms out as well, no longer concerned with distraction. She’s thinking now of survival. To die, here, after escaping the horrors of Ostagar . . . the irony is laughable and so she does. One of the templars shoots forward and has her hands bound before she even makes it fully to the ground. They bind her; of course they bind her. The rope they use is rough and she can’t help crying out when it’s pulled tight.

“My name is Solona. I’m from the Circle. I was at Ostagar when it fell; I just recently made it back to civilization.” She tries not to sound so desperate, but she can’t help it. Not when the man holding her tips the hands tied behind her back up just enough to tip her forward in pain.

The mage tries to keep her eyes focused on the leader as much as possible. She needs to appraise her possible adversary. The woman templar is looking at her critically as well. Solona imagines that she must seem a mess. There’s still a wide splash of Darkspawn blood at her right hip and her face is crossed with scratches from twigs. The templar glances past her, just once. “Bring her with us.”

Hauled to her feet and shoved back towards the Chantry, Solona feels like a criminal but is still smiling because the Hawkes have escaped, she hopes, and she has just snagged herself an escort back to the Tower.

_-!-_

One her first day with the templars, she finds out the leader’s name. She is Rylock and she is always angry, all the time. She wakes up Solona with a nudge to her ribs with a boot and when her eyes crack open, Rylock looms above her, scowling. When she’s brought food, sitting in the Chantry with all the refugees and listening to the reassuring words of the chant, Rylock growls out that the group will be leaving as soon as they’re finished. Where they’re going Solona doesn’t know. She knows the group hunts an escaped mage from the Circle that’s been out in the world for almost a year now. The templars talk about that much as they pack.

They can hear screams coming from behind them, when they’ve just left Lothering behind. The men shift, uneasily, around her as Rylock calls them on. The heavy footsteps pick up and Solona is pulled along in the wake.

On her second day she thinks they might be headed straight back to the Circle. She knows they’re on the road to Redcliffe, which leads to the road to the Circle. She might be home in just a few days. _Home_. And Cullen. Three of the templars notice her smile and point it out to Rylock. Rylock thinks she’s plotting an escape. Why else would the woman templar thrust an open palm into her chest? The hit knocks her to the ground; Rylock’s dispel brushes through her.

Solona can feel the dispel, feel it sweep into her very heart, and it takes nothing with it. Solona has nothing left to lose on the mana front. She pushes her upper body up onto her elbows and gives the templar a frustrated look. “No need for hands on, ser.”

For a moment Rylock seems struck silent before she hauls Solona back to her feet. Solona has got to stop falling down around templars. She spends more time being yanked around by the lot than she does standing on her own two feet. “Why do you not recoil from your loss of energy, mage?”

She shrugs at Rylock’s questioning and tips her head to the side. “I have none left to lose. Probably because I’m still recovering from Ostagar. You know that place where many people died to Darkspawn.” She feels sassy today. It feels good. The thought of Cullen, just the thought of him, makes her feet lighter and bolder.

“I heard Ostagar was . . . terrible.”

The templar softens around the eyes and it’s the first time Solona has seen the woman do anything but seethe. She nods her acknowledgement before she takes a few steps down the road. “We should keep going. We can’t be too far from the Circle, right?” She hopes her voice doesn’t sound two hopeful.

“We’re headed elsewhere . . . Redcliffe, for now. You are not the reason we’re here, after all.”

For now takes an extra three days on the road in which Solona learns all about walking, relieving herself with her hands tied behind her back, and sleeping while attached to a tree by an ever present length of rope. By the second day she’s practically begging Rylock and any of the templars that will listen that she’s really not going anywhere they’re not. There are Darkspawn everywhere, after all. She’s helpless and not about to set out on her own. Besides, she’s come of her own accord, remember? She wants to go back to the Tower.

They ignore her.

When the village of Redcliffe comes into view she breathes a sigh of relief. She has no idea how long the small group will remain. Any amount of time off of her feet and sleeping indoors will be next to holiness, she thinks. Trailing behind the templars, she feels too tired to really look around her and check out this new and interesting place. She is not inclined to observe today; this fact alone tells her that she really needs rest.

The Chantry in Redcliffe looks suspiciously like the one in Lothering and it doesn’t even give her pause as they climb the steps. The scent of lake she catches on the air from of Lake Calenhad, somewhere beyond the keep looming over the town, does make her stop. Just for a moment she allows the wave of nostalgia it brings to wash over her; she almost longs for the Tower at that moment. If she’s honest with herself, and she tries to be, she really just misses the people inside that Tower. The doors open and the cool darkness she’s lead into is a balm on her sun-weary face. It’s hard for her to imagine that only a few months before she’d have never even thought about being sick of the sun but walking so much is . . . draining.

Not surprisingly the Chantry has a cell for runaway mages. Solona is about to protest Rylock shoving her into the room until she catches sight of the bed pushed against the wall and her mouth snaps shut. The door at her back echoes as it slams closed. There will be time, in a day or two, to worry about this prison.

At this moment she cares very very little for the bar covered windows and locked metal door. At this moment she only wishes to sleep.


	15. Flea

The young woman stands at the edge of the bed. Her shoulders are hunched and her robes hang from her frame limply. Her hair has grown long over the years and it falls around her face, hiding her tears. She is so sad. And she has no idea why.

The room around her is destroyed. Blood covers the walls and the floor and the only thing in this room that seems clean is the bedding in front of her. Strange that it should be this way, but she accepts it without another word.

Far away she hears the cry of the Darkspawn and she shivers. Her arms wrap tightly around her chest, protecting yet never enough. She feels empty.

Standing here, though, she’s waiting for someone. Or something. To come and save her – kill her – she thinks there’s no difference. She is back at Ostagar. She is trapped in the Tower. She will die. This is all her fault.

Someone does come as she leans backwards and opens her mouth to howl her agony. Strong arms tighten around her from behind and pull her against a warm body. She knows who it is before the voice speaks into her ear. “Why would you come back? You were free!”

Solona whirls in the embrace, her hands coming up to rest against the fabric covering Cullen’s chest. When she looks up at him she’s struck by the ethereal quality of his features and she thinks it’s been too long since she’s seen him. So long that she’s forgotten what he really looks like. “I . . . have to face this, just like everyone else here. I can’t let anyone go through this alone. Have to save who I can.” She isn’t sure what she needs to save people from.

He hushes her ramblings with a kiss pressed tightly to her lips.

 _O Maker, she missed him._

Hands slide up to his face and she grasps at him, hungrily. Fingers and lips hold on tight to the solid frame that has always kept her safe. She gasps, dejectedly, when he pulls away but he’s smiling and it’s all right. “Lona . . . I can’t protect you anymore.”

She’s only half aware that there are flames licking at the furniture around them; the sudden flare of light illuminates Cullen’s face better and she sees for the first time that his gaze is empty. His perfect green eyes are cloudy gray. The flames climb higher around them and she sees the horror that Cullen has become. Angry marks on his skin shine brightly and she can’t tell if he’s even alive. Even human. He looks tainted; gaunt and dead.

“Never come back to this place Lona. Not ever.”

She awakens with a gasp and a jolt, every muscle in her body seizing all at once. She keeps still for a moment, the night mare still gripping her in terror. Cullen . . . something had been terribly terribly wrong with him. And the Tower. Ostagar. She can’t straighten out her thoughts and her head aches terribly. She swings her feet over the edge of the bed and holds her forehead gently in both hands.

She’s not at the Tower. Ostagar is far behind. She’s in Redcliffe, right? Yes. On her way home. She doesn’t want to go back anymore.

“Awake now, are we? Must have been a real bad dream.”

Her gaze snaps up at the words and she finds the source. There is a man bent over on himself, curled up against the far wall of the cell. His clothes are ragged and he looks terrible. To put it bluntly. Limp blond hair hides his face and she can’t even fathom why the templars would put a drifter into this cell with her. The man stands, his long limbs unfolding. She jumps to her feet as well, unsure as to this man’s intent. She will not allow him to lay a finger on her, if she can help it. The hand he holds towards her glows blue; he’s doing something to her. Something magical.

The ache in her head eases. The man is a mage. The spell he hits her with is overwhelming now, surging past the healing stage. His energy is flowing through her body and she gasps, loudly, as she realizes it feels like her own magic has returned. Her fingertips start to burn, that familiar flame building within her hands. She is whole again. She is – the power from the man is engulfing her, pushing her up and up and then just as suddenly as it appears, it’s gone.

Solona cries out. She is empty, once more. She sways and stumbles, her shoulder hitting the stone wall next to her cot, hard. The sudden loss is more terrifying than fleeing from Ostagar.

“Easy there.“ The man is holding her up, most suddenly. _What the hell did he do to her?_ His hands grasp her upper arms and she gets a good look at his face as her vision clears.

She can’t help the sneer that forms when she registers his appearance and connects it with someone from her past, someone far away. All worries about her energy and the emptiness and _O Maker what’s wrong with her_ leave her mind when she recognizes the face in front of her. “You!” Her voice is venom. Memories of laughing boys and burning hair and bugs down her robes flood her brain. “ _You!_ ”

Oh, she knows this man. This most foul and irritating and annoying man. He has aged; his hair was short when they were younger but the mischief in his eyes is unmistakable. Even now, as she scowls for all she is worth, he wears a smirk on his face. “Anders.” Her voice has takes on a deadly pitch. “What are you doing here?”

The mage straightens his spine and chooses to ignore her blatant and open hatred. “I could ask you the same question. You never seemed the sort to run off from the Tower. How would you study the Chant, outside the Tower?” He releases her as she raises her hands and shoves. Both of them stumble away from one another.

“I didn’t run away.” He scoffs at her and rolls his eyes. “I was sent to Ostagar.”

Those laughing eyes widen; he has heard then. Anders wears his disbelief like a mask though, gruesome and taunting. He shifts his weight to one side and crosses his arms. “And what were you supposed to do with Darkspawn? Bore them to death with a recitation of the long lost nug keepers in Orzammar?”

“You’re an ass!” It’s the best comeback she can think of. Anders actually laughs at her, the sound lightening the room but she doesn’t want him to laugh. She wants him to leave. She hasn’t seen him since his Harrowing, almost five years back. He’d been one of the few she’d wished had failed. Immediately she regrets thinking this; no one deserves to fail. Ever.

They fall into silence, listening to the Chantry around them. Solona can hear the heavy steps of the templars in the hall outside and farther away she can hear the Chant of Light. Without even realizing it, she starts reciting along. The words are comforting. This is one of her favorite parts too, the one that makes her think there is hope for her as a mage. That the Maker hasn’t really forsaken her.

 _There is no darkness in the Maker's Light . . . nothing that He has wrought shall be lost_.

“Oh please. Don’t do that. It’s bad enough to be stuck here; I don’t need you trying to brainwash me as well.”

“It’s not brainwashing. It’s _religion_.” Petulance sounds horribly whiney coming from her.

“What’s the difference?”

They stare each other down in the small cell. She could kill him now and never regret the choice. Slowly she returns to the cot and forces herself to sit, to be still. Impatience is not a virtue she likes possessing. “All I’m saying . . . is that we wouldn’t be here if it was for the Blighted Maker and his slave bride. We could do what we wanted. Be who we wanted.”

“Anders. We’re not like other people. We _can_ be dangerous.” Unbidden, the sound of her mother’s screams overpower the Chant.

“Not all of us killed our families, you know.”

That’s _it_. She rises in a flurry of indignation and crosses to him. Both hands rise and she shoves him hard. He’s laughing down at her as his back hits the wall and she advances with a finger in his face. “You only ever think about yourself, you useless asshole. Running away, pretending like something as mundane as being startled awake doesn’t result in having your bed burn to cinders beneath you. You live in a fantasy world.” His hands raise now and he opens his mouth to protest but she doesn’t let him get a word in edge wise.

“I know the Circle isn’t perfect. I’ve been smacked around by my fair share of templars and its _wrong_. Andraste’s flaming boots is it wrong but unless you can find a solution that doesn’t involve just running off you can keep your mouth shut.” She gives him another shove and stalks back to the cot. She can’t stop her hands from shaking.

“Oi! Keep it down in there!” A heavy gauntleted hand bangs on the door to the cell. Solona wishes, just wishes, she had her magic. She’d do a great job of being quiet and silently _burning_ Anders to a crisp.

“You’re a strange one. All holy righteousness, defending those that jail us. What about just letting us be?” His voice has taken on a hint of danger. She’s so used to him laughing off everything of substance that she glances over at him sharply. He is no longer jovial. “You babble off the words of the Maker and yet you seethe with rage because I refuse to live chained. The Chant doesn’t speak highly of people like you.”

“I’m not going to argue any more with you.” She is at a loss for direction. His face is begging for her fist but that’s not the way. She knows this. She sighs and drops down onto the lumpy mat. Her head no longer aches yet she feels worn out. His spell, his words, has left her shaking with exhaustion. “I’m going back to sleep. Maybe if I dream hard enough I’ll find this cell empty when I wake.” It seems unwise to turn her back and roll away from the man but she’s just so upset. And frustrated.

She’s almost drifted back off when the sound of Anders approaching the bed snaps her back to awareness. She lies still, tracking his footsteps. He shuffles and she can feel a weight press into the side of the mattress. When his voice comes, it’s quiet. “What happened to your magic? I couldn’t feel a lick of it when I cast earlier.”

Solona contemplates ignoring him. She thinks of her terror as a child, her head in flames and the cruel faces of her tormenters laughing at her before they realized the danger. She sees Jowan rush to her aide and that sends a stab of pain and regret into her stomach. Stupid Jowan and his stupid blood magic. “I lost it. At Ostagar.” Stupid Ostagar.

Moments tick by. She knows he heard her. Maybe he just doesn’t care. She’s half way back to the Fade when he says, “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

“Turn back time and save the world. Save Shuul and Neria and the armies of the King. Keep me from becoming a mage. Let him love me.” The last sentence is muttered into her pillow and she’s asleep once more.

She wakes up when it’s dark outside. The soft snores of Anders are in her ears and when she looks at the side of the bed, she realizes he’s fallen asleep sitting next to her. The Chantry is quiet beyond this room. She doesn’t know what has woken her; something in the air feels dangerous. A creature howls in the darkness. This must have been what disturbed her rest. The sound is loud and sharp enough to wake Anders and he sits up with a jerk and a gasp. The two share a look between them. _What in the Maker’s name was that?_

At the window they look out onto the back of the hill, unable to see anything except for the gradual climb of the ground. The sounds comes again; its closer and sounds like death.

The door to the cell bangs open and Rylock stands there fully armored. Her sword is clenched in her hand. “Put these on. We’re leaving.” Two sets of manacles hit the floor. “Come _on_.” Both mages scramble to comply and are lead out of the building. Redcliffe is slowly waking up in chaos. The horrible howling is building all over the town and the people that stumble out of houses look terrified.

“What’s going on Rylock?” Anders is not answered and the small group almost makes it back to the main road before another templar runs to them.

“Where are you going? We’re under attack!” Solona doesn’t know this man, doesn’t care about him really, but he sounds as though the world is ending. Rylock shoves her ahead of the rest of the templars and turns back.

“This does not concern us.”

“But, Ser Rylock! We need you! The Chantry-“

“-is none of my concern right now. I hunt apostates.” The woman templar spits the last word into the night and Solona shivers. She knows Rylock is a heartless woman; the conversation she’s overhearing just sound cruel. “I suggest you return to the town Ser Perth. It sounds like you’re needed.”

Their jaws drop. Both Solona and Anders gape at Rylock as she turns back to their group and motion them upwards and away from the far away sounds of fighting. “She really is just inhuman.” Solona’s words are whispered and she doesn’t know if Rylock hears her or not but she really hopes she does. Anders nods and helps her up a particularly steep portion of pathway. When the ground evens out she sticks close to his side and doesn’t even call him an ass when he keeps himself protectively between her and the templars.

_~!~_

The group camps hours from the city, at the junction of two main roads. There are several other groups assembled, campfires poking through the trees. It makes Rylock nervous but she looks like she’s dead on her feet.

Solona kinda hopes she is. A lot.

The templars are effective at setting up their camps and Solona has barely caught her breath before she and Anders are hustled off to a central tree and lashed to it. The youngest templar of the group sets himself up on a log and watches them while the others turn in for the night. Solona glares at the man; she’s really sick of rope.

In the distance, Solona hears a beautiful Orlesian voice, singing out into the darkness. It calms her down and starts to take away some of the worry from her frame. She can feel Anders shifting too, relaxing into their bonds. The night has still been too crazy for her to want to sleep again. She glances to her right, nudging Anders to get his attention. “How did they catch you?”

He sighs and frowns. “I was helping a child find their cat, just outside of town. The templars caught up to me while I was in a tree.”

“A cat? Really?”

Sniffing at the implied ridiculousness of his capture, he shrugs a shoulder. “Cats are nice. Soft and cuddly.”

Solona tips her head back and rests it against the tree. “I think I’m allergic to cats. I can’t ever remember liking them. When I think about them I think about sneezing. From what I’ve read that sounds like an allergy.”

“You read far more than you should. You need to experience life!” His voice rises in pitch as his impassioned words fill the sleeping camp. The templar watching glares at the pair of them sharply before Anders mutters a half-assed apology. Solona is chuckling quietly at his antics and wondering when it was okay to not hate her childhood tormentor.

Somewhere between shoving him and Rylock abandoning Redcliffe a bond has been created. Strange and delicate they are two captives, fighting the good fight. Except there is no real fight and there is very little that is good at this moment. She’s heard about people becoming closer during times of great panic or fear.

This must be what is meant. Friendship springing forth during war. She wonders if that isn’t what happened with her and Marian. She wants to think that it isn’t. After all, despite their wildly different upbringings she felt a kinship with Marian that she doesn’t feel with Anders. She is more attached to a rogue than a fellow mage.

She hopes the Hawkes made it safely out of Lothering.

She hopes their family finds a place to thrive. Good people are in short supply everywhere.

“You’re awfully young to go to war, aren’t you?” Anders breaks her concentration and she blinks, clearing her thoughts. The templar watches on.

“I left shortly after my Harrowing.”

“Any particular reason or were you just in a hurry to die?”

His words strike a bitter note in her heart that leaves her frowning. “There were . . . complications with another mage.” This is the conclusion that she’s decides on, after Lothering. This is what she will tell people now. Complications. She tries to add a note of finality to her voice to discourage Anders from continuing this line of questioning.

Maker be praised he actually get the hint this time and moves onto another subject.

“Back in Redcliffe, when you were falling asleep . . . you said I could fix everything if I could get _him_ to love you. _Him_ , who?”

She suddenly has an overwhelming urge to spill her guts about Jowan and the lay sister just to turn the conversation away from this inquiry. How is it Anders knows exactly what she doesn’t want to talk about? He takes her silence as incentive to continue badgering.

“It’s that Jowan fellow isn’t it? From what I remember the two of you were inseparable the last time I saw the both of you.”

Solona sighs and her head hangs forward. This is an out. An automatic bypass of Cullen and love and _oh why did she have to mumble before falling asleep_. “It’s beautiful for this time of year, isn’t it? I wouldn’t really know but you do. This is, what, you’re fourth escape? We always hear about it and some of the templars delight in describing the screams you make when they get their hands on you again.”

She is being cruel. She wants to make up for the barb in Redcliffe against her for killing her family.

She _almost_ doesn’t care. He’s given her a wicked head ache. She does care though and she’s about to apologize when she notices the templar shifting on the log at her words. Anders shifts too. She was only mostly joking about the screaming; there have always been rumors but nothing has ever been substantiated.

This is the sort of confirmation that she really never wanted to have.

When she glances at his face his features seem frozen. Breathes shallowly and moves as little as possible. Anders stares past the tents and the templar on the log and she thinks, _what would have happened to him if she hadn’t been captured first? If she hadn’t been here when they’d brought Anders in?_ She’s apologizing softly, wishing she could touch him, comfort him. But she can’t and he doesn’t listen to her.

She wants to weep for her words and take them all back over and over again. This is the first time she realizes that there are much worse fates than Emic throwing her against a wall or Greagoir backhanding her across the face.

When the light comes over the horizon and the camp is broken down, Anders refuses to look at her and Solona trails behind him, her head hanging in shame all the way to the Lake Calenhad docks.


	16. Return

Chapter Sixteen

They have almost arrived at the Circle Tower. It’s been teasing her for at least an hour, the tall spires giving her hope. She is so close to home and to Cullen. After months on the road and at Ostagar and almost dying a dozen times she can almost smell him on the wind. She has a tough time not running ahead of the group. She does not think that this might be the last time she’s ever out of the Circle again in her life. She doesn’t think about the things she’s seen; only the residual mental impact is given thought. It pushes her forward and hurries her steps.

The Tower is safe. There are no Darkspawn. She will be sheltered and she can get back to her life. Whatever is left, that is. No Shuul. No Neria. No Jowan. But Cullen. She will have him back and she thinks about how wide his smile will be when he sees her and that relief that he’s sure to have, Greagoir be damned. Rules be damned, too.

As the small group clears the last hill and the Tower arrives fully on the horizon she can feel the air shift around her. It’s almost imperceptible. She is filled with a sense of loss and dread and she knows. She can _feel_ it; something has gone horribly wrong.

The templars slow as their steps lead them to the docks and the one lone guard that stands over the only way into the Tower. The man’s armor is a mess and Solona doesn’t recognize the empty eyes that stare back at them. Rylock approaches the guard and the two exchange words.

When Rylock turns back, there’s a worry in her face that Solona has not seen during the days she’s traveled with the woman. Her expression is concern with a dash of failure. Next to her, Anders shifts his weight. He turns towards her and Solona can feel large fingers seeking hers. He grabs her hand and holds tight. She steps closer to him, the angle awkward with both of their hands tied.

“Something is terribly wrong.” Anders’ voice echoes her earlier thoughts and she glances up at him to find his eyes fixed on the top of the Tower. There is a faint line of smoke coming from the upper rooms. The Harrowing Chamber, it looks like. When he looks down his own expression is so similar to Rylock’s. Dread sits heavy in her heart.

“Men! Get the prisoners loaded onto the boat.” Metal hands lead them both to their waiting transport. Solona doesn’t even try to correct the misnomer. She is still no prisoner. The rope binding her wrists _burns_ the skin there.

Her third crossing of the Lake is deathly quiet. All eyes watch the rapidly growing Tower and the silence is making her even more nervous. She moves closer to Anders and is dismayed when his earlier showing of support is not repeated. Her words from the night before are still heavy between them and whatever reasons he may have had to seek comfort from her on the dock are long gone.

She whispers to him again that she’s sorry, if only to break the silence. The templar in front of her, on edge and nervous to the point of shaking, whips his head around and tells her to shut her trap. Anders still doesn’t look at her.

The boat docks. There is no one to greet them as they climb the stairs to the main entrance. At the doors, Rylock waves them back and slips inside by herself. A breeze picks up and Solona smells the smoke from the Tower for the first time. It reminds her of the camp at Ostagar and the bodies the soldiers burned after skirmishes. Tainted. That’s what it smells like. And it still makes her want to vomit.

Rylock appears again a moment later, just her head through the door telling the men to bring them inside.

She and Anders both take a deep breath as they cross the threshold. Returned. Imprisoned. At the moment there is no difference for either of them.

The entrance is almost completely abandoned when the group enters. The two mages are both surprised to see the blood on the walls and the small pile of armor that sits next to the Circle’s Quartermaster. Templar Bran, the constant guard at the entrance for years now, is the only other person in the lobby. There is quiet here, _everything is far too quiet_ , disturbed only by the sound of wind whipping through the building. Solona thinks there’s a window or four open somewhere.

Heavy and familiar footsteps sound just around the corner and Rylock holds her men in place as Greagoir appears. He is haggard; Anders inhales sharply at the sight of the man. As he nears, the templars stand at attention and Rylock salutes. The gesture is returned as the calculating eyes of the Knight-Commander take in the group.

When his eyes land on Solona, she meets his gaze. He frowns and stares too long for her comfort. It sends a shiver through her frame and she has to look away. “Where did you find that one?” He sounds tired.

“Lothering, Knight-Commander. She claims to have been at Ostagar.”

There is a space where Greagoir contemplates Rylock’s words. Solona can see him shift his weight, his boots scraping against the stone floor. “Well, cut her loose. Bran, take the girl up to the First Enchanter.”

Rylock gives an affirmation and Solona is suddenly free of her bonds. She rubs her wrists as Bran appears at her elbow. The templar takes her arm and leads her farther into the Tower.

Behind her, Rylock and Greagoir are talking softly and she takes one look behind her; just a glimpse to look at Anders. His face is a mask. Emotionless he stands as Greagoir approaches him. There is an evil glint in the Knight-Commanders eyes and Solona cries out as a heavy hand impacts the other mage’s stomach. Bran shoves her ahead again and she loses sight of the group.

Anders yells out, just once, and the sound echoes off the walls around her. The empty halls decorated with blood and entrails both. The templar at her back pushes her again when she falters at the anguished cry. She closes her eyes, feet still carrying her down the familiar path to the stairwell. Tears burn, held in check but present.

Why had she ever wanted to come back? She should have helped Anders escape again, insisted that he take her with her. She could have seen the world, she could have-

“Solona?” Her eyes pop open at her name and for a moment she’s not sure what she’s seeing. The mage in front of her should be familiar. The features are mostly the same and yet the face is slack in shock and a long gash runs down the right side of the woman’s face. Petra, who had been with the mages at Ostagar, stands at the entrance to the female Apprentice quarters. The hem of her robes is black with blood. At her back a small group of children watch the older women. “How in the blazes did you get here? We thought you were dead.”

There is no real love between the two of them. Wynne was never more than a teacher and her apprentice an irritating nuisance when Solona failed at producing even the simplest healing spell. It is, however, good to see Petra’s tentative and amazed smile.

She opens her mouth to respond but Bran nudges her ahead of him, once more. “Keep walking.” The man’s impatience is wearing thin on her nerves and she is really sick of being shoved this way and that. She is seconds away from turning on him but something in Petra’s eyes keeps her mouth shut; there is pure terror reflecting back and it’s chilling. Petra slowly moves her head from side to side and Solona is moved away and up the stairs to the second floor.

There is more destruction on the second floor. There are several doors blown off of their hinges, the trademark of powerful spells or a well placed boot. Ash piles litter the floor. She wants to check these piles, just to see what they are, but she knows Bran will have none of that. As they pass by her room, for however short a time, she glances in and sees everything in cinders. Her room had burned.

For a split second she sees the hollow gaze of Cullen in her mind, telling her to never come back. Her dream haunts her next few steps; somehow she had known that something was wrong. Her mind had tried to tell her and she hadn’t listened. Of course she hadn’t. She’d woken up to Anders and that feeling as his magic had flown through her limbs.

This mental onslaught is chipping away at the wall that has held back her panic and fear. There has been so much pain and death for her. So much. Too much, just too much, going on around her. Bran delivers her without further interruption to Irving’s office and she blinks away her distraction as the First Enchanter also calls her name.

“Solona! My child.” With his arms open and a wide smile of relief on his face, the First Enchanter embraces her. She’s never been terribly close to him either but the familiar smell of potions and magic clinging to him destroys what grip she has on her emotions.

Everything within her crumbles. She cannot hold back the tears or the words that pour from her, describing her journey and the death of Neria and the Darkspawn and what she saw on the road. _Oh Maker_. She clings to the man that sent her away from here.

It feels like hours before her tears subside and she is sitting at the chair across the desk from Irving’s. She has been in this seat many times for various reasons over the years. She feels like a child once more, her legs drawn up to her chest in her seat. Irving has poured a glass of water for her and it sits on the table in front of her.

Her hands are rough as they rub the last of the moisture from her face. She feels better, getting everything out. She has shared most everything with Irving and he is regarding her calmly as she finishes collecting herself. When she finally takes a drink, the cool water is refreshing and rejuvenating, he starts to speak.

“We had an issue here, a few days ago.” He pauses and his hand rises to rub his forehead. An issue seems like an understatement from the little she’s seen. “There was an uprising. Blood mages.” He spits the words and Solona’s jaw drops.

“Blood mages? Here in the Tower? How?”

“It was Uldred. He was . . . different when he came back from Ostagar. Something happened there, something terrible. It was- He was changed upon his return. I should have sensed something but he almost had us all convinced that the Wardens had abandoned the field and that we should back Loghain. There were refugees at the dock and the handful of mages that made it back were so badly wounded . . . most didn’t make it. And then Wynne showed up with Petra. Petra had apparently been stationed with the Teryn’s troops. Your battle idea, so I hear.” He tips his head to her.

“Yes, I remember. I hadn’t considered what happened to the other mages on the field after we were overrun.”

“Petra was almost killed. The Teryn’s men cut her up pretty good.” Well, that explained the wounds on her face. “Wynne found her and revived her. They returned a week ago and there was an argument.” Irving stands and turns away from her. His shoulders are hunched and this no longer appears to be the bastion of strength and patience she remembers. “We had a meeting and Ulred revolted. He had a handful of other mages with him, but they spread so quickly.”

He turns to face her again and she sees tears in his eyes now. The image is heartbreaking for her. Solid and honorable Irving.

“Most of the templars were caught on the fourth floors. Wynne and Petra saved a class of young apprentices. There were also a handful in the library that made it out before The Knight-Commander closed off the majority of the Tower. Many did not make it.” His weary frame collapses back in his chair and Solona says nothing. She has questions, but right now they can wait.

“If it hadn’t been for the Wardens the Tower would have been annulled. But, they arrived in time and saved who they could.”

Annulment. It sets her on edge, just hearing the word. “Wait, the Wardens? Some of them survived then?” She thinks of Josef and hopes.

“Two of them. They arrived three days after the revolt. From what Greagoir says they swept in, forbid the Annulment he had planned, and cleared out the Tower. In only a few hours. They left just as quickly too; it’s possible you passed them on the road. One of them, the man, was a templar in training before being conscripted and the woman was a Teryn’s daughter. Cousland, I think.”

The name means nothing to her but she remembers the Almost-Templar and his stoic expression as he’d carried Neria back to the Warden’s camp at Ostagar. She can feel the blood draining from her face at the memory.

“So, where does that leave the Tower? What do we do now?” Her words are whispered and she wants to ask other things. Solona thinks of the templars, the memory of that Warden reminding her that she hasn’t considered Cullen in all of this. She thinks that if he didn’t survive . . . if he died because of a corrupted mage she’ll find some way to bring Uldred back to life so she can have the honor of killing him again.

“Greagoir has restricted our movement. The majority of the mages are currently staying in the Apprentice Quarters. All Apprentices are confined to the fourth floor so they can be watched at all times. When you leave you can head back downstairs and take a bunk.” He rubs his forehead again, less upset and more contemplative. “With you here that makes six full mages. I would like to get a few classrooms up and functioning so lessons can resume. The younger apprentices are already growing restless.”

She feels the aches of her journey, even in this padded seat. The mention of a bunk, of sleep uninterrupted by attack or templar, is so very tempting. She is filthy, however. She can smell the stench of travel and death on herself and it makes her want to gag. “Six mages. What are we going to do with six mages?”

“Sadly this is not the first Tower that’s had problems. We will do what we’ve always done as Magi of the Circle. We rebuild. We have a few apprentices who can be Harrowed soon; they survived an invasion. The Fade should be no problem. Mostly, though, we need to watch ourselves. Absolutely no one can give a templar reason to doubt their devotion to this Circle or their purity. I fear any incident would incite death and mayhem, once more.” This sounds like a dismissal and she stands. Irving raises as well, a small yet somehow apologetic smile on his face. “I’ll assign you some duty in the morning. However, I insist you clean yourself up and get some sleep. We have time, now that the worst has hopefully passed, and you look exhausted.”

She gives him a nod and shifts to go before pausing. Something springs to her mind. “Anders came back with me. He was captured in Redcliffe. While we were being escorted here I got the feeling that he’s in for some extreme punishment. I wanted you to know; the templars have been abusing him, I think.”

He loses any resemblance of a smile and now he just looks sad. Sad and broken.

Solona gives him a small nod and heads back to the stairs and a warm bath.


	17. Bound

Chapter Seventeen

Wynne has left the building.

The news is disturbing and sad and Solona feels helpless when Petra tells her. She slides deeper into the cooling bath and shivers as Petra describes the way the Wardens had swept in and saved the day. Saved everyone and then ran off with Wynne and the belief that they could save the world.

Solona thinks, _but what about me? Who’ll save me?_ Wynne had represented the last bit of possible knowledge about her missing magic and she is terrified.

Petra doesn’t notice that Solona’s hands are shaking when she reaches for the soap. Reaches and drops it. Petra merely hands the bar back to her and keeps on explaining about the great and might Wardens.

Petra perfectly describes the almost-templar and the hard-eyed woman who’d come in with Neria. She’s been back in the Tower for six hours, if that, and she misses her friend’s present like she misses _him_. Cullen . . . or maybe Shuul. She can’t place a name or a face with the unseen dread that fills her full of loss.

And Petra rambles on. Solona listens with half an ear now, her mind more focused on this issue with her magic and Irving’s apparent disregard for her dilemma. Oh yes, this little gem of information had spilled forth during her less than graceful breakdown in the First Enchanter’s arms. But Irving had said nothing.

He did say that they had time. Time and things to do.

Petra mentions Anders and Solona’s full attention snaps back to the woman sitting next to her bath. “What did you say?”

The redhead blinks at her before her face slides into a snide laugh. “You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said, have you?”

Solona shifts and sits up in the water. It’s too cool to be comfortable and she’s ready for clean clothes and a bed. “I’m a little distracted. Please, forgive me.” Petra hands her a towel and she wraps up before asking again. “You said Anders. Did something happen to him?”

The dorm is empty, everyone else off and about their evening activities, when the two women enter. Solona makes a beeline for her old bunk and sinks gratefully to the mostly soft mattress. The habit is laughable. Four months on the road and she still remembers what it means to be a good apprentice. Petra sighs as she leans against the bunk.

“I heard him yelling, after you’d gone into Irving’s office. The templars shut him up though and dragged him up to the fourth floor. They’re keeping to themselves for the most part. Did you know that for the first time in a long time the templars outnumber the mages?”

The thought is not all that comforting. She worries the edge of the cotton towel, thinking. Petra had detailed the mages that still live. Apprentices and enchanters alike. Keili did not make it. Her circle is truly broken now, scattered and dead. “Are they allowing visitors up there? I mean, could I go see the apprentices and perhaps Anders?” She isn’t sure that her voice wavers as much as she imagines it does. If she can get up to the fourth floor, Cullen will likely be there. He wasn’t in the halls earlier; no one was except for Petra and the little ones.

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask the First Enchanter; maybe the Knight Commander as well now that I think about it.”

Solona has no wish to talk to Greagoir about anything. She still remembers with jolting clarity how it feels to have her head bounced off the flagstones. And right after an insurrection . . . she’s probably one of the last people in Thedas he wants to see.

“I’m glad you survived Solona. If it hadn’t been for Loghain and his men we would have won that day. You had a really good plan.” Petra’s voice dips at the mention of Loghain. Solona remembers that Irving had mention what happened to Petra at Ostagar.

“I’m glad you made it too. I’m sorry you ended up with his men.”

The redhead shrugs and straightens. “It’s no bother. A face is a face, is it not? Scars add character, so I keep hearing. The important thing is that we made it and now we’re two of the most experienced Enchanters in the whole of Ferelden.” Solona doesn’t particularly like the pride in Petra’s voice. She would rather be an apprentice, still, instead of facing the task of putting right what has been destroyed.

“I’m going to head back to the library. We’ve got a lot of cleaning to do and the night is still young. Get some sleep.”

Solona grabs Petra’s hand before the other woman can walk away. “You didn’t say anything about Senior Enchanter Silas. Did he survive the uprising?” She misses her mentor. Much as she misses everyone else.

Petra cocks her head. “From what I understand he died on the way back to the Tower from Ostagar.” Solona lets her hand fall back to her lap and the red-head exits.

Of course he died. Everyone has died. She doesn’t even bother putting on pajamas. Hair damp, heart aching, Solona pulls back the blankets and slips underneath. Hopefully everything will look less dismal in the morning. She doesn’t really think they will, but she can hope all the same.

It is hours later when she is startled awake by a sharp snort and unsteady exhale. Her eyes pop open when she registers what the sound is; someone close to her is snoring. The room is inky black and she wonders at the rarity of this. This room had always been lit, however faintly, by candles at all hours. Tonight, though, she can’t see her hand as it pulls away the covers. Her feet swing to the floor and that same hand comes up to rub lightly at her forehead. She is sticky with sweat and her clammy hands do nothing for the damp skin of her face.

She had been dreaming of Ostagar. It hasn’t happened often. The fact that her first night back to the Tower she can see lifeless eyes and rivers of blood even as her eyes adjust to the darkness only make her shake her head. She is not panicked, nor is she afraid of her dreams. They create a strange sort of dead space in her head that clears as the room comes into view.

The snoring man inhales deeply once more and she can see a shape now, a few rows away. The outline of the man with his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm makes her pause when she remembers she’s completely naked. Were this six months ago she’d think nothing of it. The girls never really bothered with modesty, not here. Now, though, she pulls on the light sleeping gown that Petra had given her when she’d first arrived at the Apprentices Quarters after her chat with Irving.

The fabric is soft and smells dusty but its clean. Solona relishes the brush of worn cotton against her skin as she stands and stretches out her limbs. Her body still feels tired, screaming for the relief of sleep, but her mind is still running a horror show of dead soldiers.

She should eat. Food will calm her; remind her body that its safe now and she has all the time in the world to sleep and relax. Her great trials are over, so it would seem.

She has no shoes to speak of; her own vanished while she’d been in the bath along with the stained and torn robes she’s worn since Ostagar. Rather, she enjoys the cool stones under her bare feet as she leaves the Quarters and makes her way to the kitchens.

The halls are dimly lit as well but the light bounces off the curves and creates a tunnel of lamination. She would know the path to the kitchens without the candles but she’s grateful for the soft comfort they provide. She is used to the sounds of wildlife and the wind in the trees now. Utter silence and total darkness make her uncomfortable.

She encounters no one as she crosses the main lobby. Bran isn’t posted at the door and while the pile of Templar armor remains, the Quartermaster is missing as well. She is not perturbed by these facts; it is the heavy piece of wood that bars the door that makes her pause. They are, all of them, barricaded into this building. She is grateful for the dim lighting; she can feel the dry blood, the leaking magic of it, make the air heavy with its presence. Her feet carry her faster to the side staircase and the back entrance to the kitchens on the lower level.

It’s true she hasn’t been down here often. The kitchen is housed two doors down from the dungeons. As a child she had been horrified at the stories the older apprentices whispered in the dark of night and when she’d finally braved the evening watch to sneak out with Jowan to filch some food they’d head the tortured screams of _someone_. The both of them had run all the way back up to their dorm. Jowan had held her as she had shaken until the morning and sometimes when she remembers this she realizes that he had been shaking as well. The dungeons are likely to be empty, Anders will be kept up on the fourth floor most likely so the Templars can keep a close eye on him, and she is not afraid.

Tonight - - _this morning_ \- - there are no screams and no guards and she slips into the kitchens with no problems. The place smells like bread and stew. These are a Templar’s favorite things to eat she thinks. She finds a loaf and hops up on the table to partake in her impromptu meal. As she munches away, feeling not quite at peace but relaxed at long last, she contemplates.

She wants to find out what happened to Cullen. Good or bad, she needs to know. She is almost positive she loves him. She needs closure, if he didn’t make it through the siege. If he did . . . she needs _him_. Like she needs air.

She wants to find out what’s happened to her magic and how she can reverse whatever . . . this . . . is. Not only because it’s really annoying to relearn how to function in the world without her gift, but also because she is nothing without magic. Every day since she was brought to this place until Ostagar has been framed and defined by her ability. Every part of her hinges on this.

She takes a particularly large bite and chews thoughtfully while allowing that thought to simmer.

She supposes that she could at least assist in research of some sort. If this state is permanent. She thinks that she’ll be able to find a place.

The thought scares her almost as much as losing her magic all together. Either she’s become more adaptable or else she really has just given up hope.

Neither idea is terribly comforting.

She is finishing off the last of the bread when she hears the door scrape open behind her. She glances back to see the heavy wood cracked, but nothing other than darkness beyond. “Hello?” There is no answer to her tentative call. She hadn’t heard anyone approach.

She jumps off the table lightly and is turning to investigate when something large, and solid, and decidedly male impacts her side. This immense object is just outside of her vision as it grabs both of her hands and jerks them around to her back violently. She cries out. There is rope at her wrist again.

She is bound and pressed against the wood table before she really fully understands what’s happening. The sharp bite of edges _hurt_ like the rope hurts and whoever is holding her reaches up with a hand and jerks her head back by her hair. Now she screams, outraged and afraid. She struggles with the man holding her, trying to grab onto something, anything, to hurt him. She’s got nails; she can draw blood even from this strange angle. The man does not wear armor but she can tell he’s not wearing robes either.

She’s got her fingers inches away from a fist full of private parts and about to tear his balls off when he leans his head in close and starts to speak. “I knew that you were still here, somewhere. Hiding. We’re never safe; not ever so long as there’s mages alive in this damned place.”

Every muscle in her body freezes and her breath leaves her in one quick exhale. “Cullen?”

Behind her, the man laughs darkly. When he speaks, his voice is gravel and poison. “What did I tell you earlier about using my name? Don’t ever say my name. You haven’t the right, demon.”

 _Demon?Before? What in the Fade-_

“Cullen, please, stop. It’s me. I’m back. I’m so glad you’re all right.” She wants to sob with the relief at hearing his voice. And cry out in pain as he slams her against the table again. “Stop. Cullen-“

He whirls her around, a tug and a small shove and she sprawls back on the wood now behind her. The man in front of her _is_ Cullen. Has to be. And yet . . . she feels like she’s looking at a husk of the man that she’s been traveling for weeks to get back to.

Because, honestly, she’s come to grips with the fact that _he_ is the only reason she’s returned.

The shadows block most of his features but there’s a hunch to his posture and a quirk to his jaw line that hadn’t been there when she’d left. She’s processing this revelation, of the utterly baffling difference between the man in her memory and the one standing before her, when he moves.

He’s quick. He’s always been quick. His hands are on her shoulders, pushing her back and down _down_ to the flagstones. He raises a palm and slams it to her forehead. The dispel that he releases tastes like acid in the back of her throat as it pulses through her but it’s ineffective as she has noting that needs cleansing.

“Cullen. Stop. Please, listen to me!” Panic is making her voice raged with fear.

He blinks, looking unsure. Perhaps he’s surprised his abilities have had no effect. He tries again, grinding down onto her forehead now. The pull of the skin on skin contact hurts. The second dispel comes and goes and yet she still blinks up at him, tears in her eyes.

“Please.” Barely a whisper now.

Green eyes, once turned happily towards her smiling face, are wide and flighty. He looks at every corner of her countenance, checking for something. He lifts his palm and grabs roughly at her chin, turning her face from side to side. “Show yourself demon.” Gravel wears down to sand and the poison of his earlier words slides towards desperation.

“I am no demon, Cullen. It’s only me.” She can understand something has happened. Something monumental has created a crazed man instead of the shy and earnest soul that she holds so close to her heart. “What’s happened to you?”

Cullen’s face twitches. His eyes finally fixate on her own and he sees her tears, her plain terror, for the first time. His mouth works to form words but is seemingly incapable. “Talk to me Cullen.”

He blinks, once. Then again. And then exhales a breath he’s been holding for a long minute and all of the fight drains from his body. Hands fall, he slumps back and stares. “Lona?”

She attempts a reassuring smile and a nod. “Yeah. It’s me. I’m back.”

He spends another long moment just _looking_ before he’s on her again, teeth nipping and lips working and she’s being kissed with every ounce of the man in front of her. She snaps out of her shock and starts to respond only to have him pull back with a shake of his head. “I can’t- this-“ He’s stuttering again. He finds her gaze once more. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I just can’t-“

And she watches him stand, swift as he can, and practically fly from the room.

She sits, still tied and thoroughly confused, on the floor of the kitchen and listens to his retreating footsteps. She stays that way for many long minutes before she can feel her feet again. Before her heart stops pounding in her ears.

Solona stands, shaking on her feet. She pulls at the ropes that bind her. They are tight on her skin. Thankfully, she’s in a _kitchen_ surrounded by sharp and pointy objects. She finds a knife and through a little creative maneuvering, a pricked finger, and quite a bit of colorful language she manages to cut free.

She should have run when she had the chance. She could have helped the Hawkes. They were genuinely nice people and she’s quite sure Marian might be one of the best friends she’s ever made in her life. Instead, she’d done the right thing. She’s stuck back in the tower with a skeleton crew of people, no magic, and a bevy of seemingly insane templars. _Oh, Cullen. What happened to you?_

She feels dizzy and is allowing herself a chance to recalibrate to her settings when she hears the faint shouting from the corridor. It doesn’t sound like Cullen, but then again, perhaps it is him. Maybe he truly has gone off the deep end.

She allows her curiosity to lead her, carefully and mindful of her uneven mental state, through the shadows outside the door and farther away from the stairs leading upwards. Towards the dungeons.

She realizes that they are keeping people down here, which is a shudder inducing thought. As she clears the last corner leading to the holding cells, the voice becomes clear and distinctive and she almost wants to groan. Of course it’d be him.

Anders sits in a cell made entirely of bars. The cell itself resides in the center of a large room with a good fifteen feet on each side of it. The bars go to the ceiling and even though the dim lighting down here she can see that he’s been stripped of everything save for a loose pair of pants and a ragged shirt. They are not the same he’s been traveling in. Oh no, those rags were actually well mended in comparison to what he’s currently wearing.

As she appears in the door way, his shouting ceases, something about there being a fight, and his eyes narrow. “Oh, of course it’d have to be you. Were you making all that noise?” His words sound force, strained. Difficult.

She steps closer and doesn’t answer. Rather, she inspects. She could have taken Anders and disappeared. He’s got enough talent in disappearing and maybe with her strange run of bizarre luck she’s had recently she could have managed enough talent to keep them from getting caught.

As she sees his face up close, free from the shadows of the torches on the wall, she swears under her breath and sighs. Dark bruises are blooming from both eyes and the split lip he sports can account for a good portion of the lisping. “Worked you over pretty good huh? And not a moment of healing to spare I suppose.”

A curious cold settles in her chest; it feels like resignation.

She sits down, with her back against the bars of Anders’s cage and leans her head back. He joins her after a moment’s hesitation, leaning beside her the other direction. “ _Was_ that you?” She turns her head and raises a single eye brow. “The shuffle I heard. Sounded painful.”

She shows off the rope burn on her wrists and smiles ruefully. “Seems much has changed since I was last year. Someone got a little handsy.” Her voice cracks at that last bit and she lets out a weighted sigh.

Anders cranes to see her skin and mutters something under his breath that she can’t quite hear. “I wish I could help but you know how it is with mage prisons. What with the Fade all cut off and super special shackles designed to pester and irritate.” He holds up his own wrists, showing off a set of manacles. They’re standard templar issue and will dampen even the most powerful mage.

“We should have run. I should have- I should have considered everything before I came back here.”

There’s surprise flashing across his face and he chuckles ruefully. He opens his mouth but her desolate expression silences him and the two sit for a very long time, both lost in their own thoughts.

_~!~_


	18. Back

_Chapter Eighteen_

True to his word, when Solona finds Irving in his office the next day he has a list of things for her to do that’s as long as his arm. Literally. Perhaps a few inches past as well. He’s deep in conversation with a templar that she doesn’t recognize and with a wave of his hand, sends her on her way with the list tucked under an arm.

She takes a good look at it in the hallway. She glances around for a second. It’s almost dead quiet, save for Irving’s hushed conversation. This silence is going to take some getting used to. As she peruses the list she thinks, _at least it’ll be easy to hear the templars sneaking up now._

A shiver snakes down her spine as the image of Cullen, knelt in front of her and struggling with a terrible internal conflict, flashes through her mind. A heavy sigh shudders through her.

 _Back to work. Think about something else._

She stands in that quiet hallway and reads over his requests. Catalogue the library. See to the practice room on the first floor. Clean up the Mage quarters. Clean the flagstones.

Solona is no housekeeper and she wonders if her complete lack of magic in a tower full of mages is going to subject her to the life of a servant.

She wishes Irving wasn’t so busy this morning. Wishes he’d listened to her when she’d told her tale last night about having no magic and given her possible explanations. Helped her, assuaged her. Made her feel like she wasn’t useless.

A child darts past her and around the corner. She has enough time to realize he’s not wearing any pants, only his smalls, and is covered in what appears to be jam. The boy looks to be only a handful of years old and he’s giggling like mad as he disappears from sight. Moments later, Petra appears. Her eyes wild with frustration, she pauses at Solona. “Did you see Micah? He just came this way.”

Solona raises an arm and points in the direction of the fleeing child. Petra follows her finger and then grabs her outstretched hand. “C’mon. Two will be better than one for this little menace.” Solona makes no complaints as she’s pulled behind Petra. She has the forethought to tuck the list into the sash at her waist. Cleaning can wait. There’s mischief afoot.

_~!~_

It takes the better part of two hours for the women to wrangle the runaway child. By the time they’ve got him back in his pants and with the other apprentices, it’s almost midday and Solona realizes that she’s actually having fun, laughing and joking with Petra while they’ve captured and cleaned their prey. When the midday meal bell tolls Petra loops an arm through her own and the two walk to the cafeteria, herding the smaller apprentices before them. She is officially free from cleaning duty, for now, while she is drafted for babysitting.

There are five apprentices, in total, under the age of ten. Little Micah is the youngest, having just arrived before the Tower was overrun. Petra ruffles his dark hair and whispers over his head that he seems to be doing fine. The next oldest at six is Gwenaella. The girl is blond hair and beautiful energy and was left at a chantry by her Orlesian parents when her talents had been discovered on a business trip. Gwenaella is a little rough around the edges with her Ferelden but is delighted when Solona attempts a short conversation in Orlesian with the girl.

After the last _d’accord_ Gwenaella melts herself to Solona’s side and if this is what having an apprentice is like, Solona thinks she could get used to loving smiles and grubby fingerprints on all her clothing.

Talma and Rinnoa make up the eldest of the girls, both eight years old. They are dark and light, fire and ice, perfect compliments of one another. Both elves, they share many facial similarities that Solona catalogues during that first meal. Same slightly square chin, same upswept nose. Even their golden eyes are the same. Solona thinks they must be twins, or at least sisters, but Petra just shrugs when asked. Rather, the other mage shovels food in her mouth in between reprimanding the eldest of the group, Pip. Solona watches the tops of the elves heads, one red and vibrant and the other shimmering silver.

Pip makes quick work of just about everything. He’s nine and full of energy and no time at all for these younger apprentices he seems stuck with. Solona manages to dodge a flying mass of some sort of food product and Petra is clamoring over the table to cuff Pip across the ears. She frowns at the impact thinking that no one ever hit her when she was an apprentice, well at least no one not a templar.

The templars eat in the hall now, Solona notes with a hint of interest. They line the far side, all facing the mages and all watching carefully for a hint of uprising. They have removed their helmets and the line of empty eye slits staring at her from the floor beside their feet makes her want to shiver. Their vigilance is understandable, she thinks. She’s read of tribes, probably on Par Vollen, that will commit a magic user’s body to the ground while the mage still lives if there is an uprising of abominations. That, at least, is something to be thankful about in the Tower. No live burials. Simply never ending observance.

There is one other table; the other four full mages sit with their apprentices. Irving finds her glance and gives her a little nod. Imperceptible allowance of her new duties as Petra’s assistance she imagines. His apprentice is a mousy little elf that Solona remembers. He’s a few years younger than her. Flora, his name is. She thinks. Maybe. The young man is bookish in the same way that she is and she’s spent many hours mere feet away from the elf and yet has never had the opportunity or inclination to introduce herself.

Next to Irving sits Van Lowe. Pretentious, Solona remembers. Van Lowe is a family name. Distinguished magic users from the Imperium who had fled to Fereldan over a strange dispute a generation ago. Van Lowe does not belong in a Circle, he says. Van Lowe should be a magister. He is, however, by far the best employer of the Arcane Warrior School she’s ever seen in her life and as such she likes her head attached to her body.

The other two enchanters are both senior and both women. The eldest, Mirna, is the same loving enchanter who had taken her under her wing when she’d been introduced to the general populace so many years ago. The woman seems the same as she always has and if she doesn’t laugh in quite the same joyful fashion as before and if her back seems a little more hunched Solona puts it out of her mind. Solid and formidable Mirna. She has an apprentice as well. Solona doesn’t recognize the boy but he’s young. Eleven at the most. Old enough to apprentice to a mage yet too young to be of much good for anything besides fetching watch and taking out the refuse.

The last remaining senior enchanter is distinguished by her robes. They are rich velvet and look to be in exceptional shape. The woman has the eyes of a hawk and definitely catches Solona checking her over. She frowns, lines cutting deep grooves in her face. Most severe. Solona has no idea who she is. She has no apprentice.

Thirteen magic users in a palace of templars.

The thought is terrifying.

She shakes off the dread of the idea and glances back down the line of armored men. There are at least twenty templars remaining. Cullen is not present, neither is Greagoir. Thought of the former, of his lips on hers just last night and the demanding way he’d taken her mouth, made her skin flush, rushes into her brain. She really needs to talk to someone, anyone, and find out what happened to him. Has to understand why he’d accost her like he did.

A giggle breaks her concentration on Cullen and of last night. Talma, the redhead, gives her a most innocent look before sliding her hand along the table towards the center, towards Gwenaella and Micah, leaving a small trail of fire behind her fingers. Solona opens her mouth to chide before Rinnoa waves her hand after wards and the flames freeze. The younger two watch with rapt fascination and Solona has to admit it’s a neat trick. She and Jowan had almost perfected that sort of teamwork, her fire playing off of his ice.

The illusion is shattered in an instant when a large armored hand comes crashing down on the frozen fire. The entire table jumps and the templar responsible for the interruption growls. He sounds feral and Solona can see its Cullen, can see the light red of his goatee peaking through his helm. He is fear and anger and bellowing voice as he pulls Rinnoa backwards onto the floor. In an instant, the other apprentices are up and away from the table. Solona is rising as Cullen’s hand moves to his sword hilt.

Everything happens far faster than she could have expected. Cullen is yelling about abominations and Petra is trying to shield the small group of children. The next table over Irving looks to be climbing over the wood and at the far end of the hall she glimpses Greagoir standing in the door way of the dining hall.

Solona should freeze Cullen, put him to sleep, something. But she _can’t._ She can’t do anything with her magic. As the sword is drawn, a long and gritty sound that widens every mages’ eyes in the room, she ceases all higher brain functions.

She just moves.

She lets out a shout to distract him and as he’s turning to face her she leaps at him. Despite the superior bulk of his armor she gets a grip on his chest piece and helm. The helm comes free as the two tumble to the ground in a mass of robes and metal. She lands on top of him. They both share mirrored reflections of fear and panic but for very different reasons.

When he speaks, his voice is soft. “Why did you stop me? She’s an abomination-“ She can tell he clearly wants to say more but the changing expression on her face stops him.

The pain blossoms from her the center of her body, at first a sharp pinching and then an ache that fills her chest with agony. She opens her mouth to say something, anything, ask him why he’s gone insane or why she’s useless or even to let him know she’s still fairly certain that she loves him. There are no words. She coughs and the sound is wet; strained. Below her Cullen’s face is splattered with the blood she’s expelling through her mouth.

People are moving now; someone tries to pull her up and the movement makes her scream. Endless screaming. They can’t move the sword Cullen has thrust through her lower chest without tearing anguish from lungs.

Solona knows that it shouldn’t even matter. If they’d just give her a few minutes she can die in peace and Cullen can get his sword back and hopefully Rinnoa is safe and she saved Marian anyway, right? She’s done well and saved people and if there was ever a time to die, it might as well be now.

There’s a group of templars carrying her as she starts to lose touch with the world. At her feet, delicately cradling her ankles in hands free of gauntlets, Cullen watches her face. Her blood, his face. He looks a mess and she isn’t even sorry. He has, after all, just killed her. The blood is smeared as though he’s tried to wipe it away with little success. He looks gruesome and worried. She wants to tell him everything will be okay. She’ll go and join the Maker in the Golden City and will see her mother and her brothers again.

Her final breath comes in deep; she makes the effort to fill her lungs one last time. _There is no death in the light of the Maker_. She remembers the Chant, flooding back through her mind, reminding her that she’ll be all right. She’ll be fine-

_~!~_

When she awakes the first thing she thinks is:

 _Really? REALLY?_

It’s not the pain in her chest or her light headedness from her blood loss that bothers her. It’s not the sickly sweet smell of the medical herbs that fills her senses. It’s not the fact that she can’t move a limb, much less open an eye.

It’s the thought, the wonder, that she survives. _Maker, you have a strange sense of necessity to save me._

Her lower half is also sore; her knees feel horrible. As do the palms of her hands. _What in the Fade-?_

“Lona? Lona, can you hear me?” Petra’s voice sounds, right next to her ear. Solona tries to answer but cannot force the words past her lips, parched and raw from the screaming. A cup presses against her mouth and she has the good sense to swallow.

It is water and something else. Something . . . bitter. Yet invigorating. A healing potion? She thinks, no, it cannot be. Healing potions are thick and heavy. They coat the throat. This is a light and airy substance and it tastes like starlight. _Lyrium._

She tries to protest, to push it away. She has no use for lyrium. It is a tease, what Petra is doing.

Except . . .

 _except_

her body responds. The potion surges through her limbs and her core, warming where it passes and then leaving a cool restfulness in its wake. She can feel it in her fingertips; they curl in response. Her lips are working, asking silent questions, when they open in a wordless scream and her magic surges back to life.

Her back arches, her hands grab onto the bed sheets beneath her as she feels every muscle in her body tense at once with the return.

Magic.

 _Magic. Its back._

As quickly as the wave of energy hits her it recedes, pulling away from the shore of her consciousness. But enough mana remains in its wake that Solona calls for a simple healing spell, about the only that she’s even managed to learn, and presses a fevered palm to her head.

The pounding in her brain ceases. The angry cry of pain still lingering is banished. She falls back into a deep and heavy sleep.

_~!~_

Later Irving tells her that when she was healing her, Petra realized that her spells were having violent reactions to the skin at Solona’s knees and her palms. Every spell poured into her body caused reddening and the magic would not penetrate these areas. Petra had the forethought to do a little exploratory surgery and found pieces of an unknown metal buried beneath the healed skin.

Petra and Irving ask her about the wounds and she tells them, barely propped up in the bed she’s picked out in the Apprentices Quarters, about the moment she had saved Marian. She explains, to the best of her recollection. And then explains again when they continue to ask. The third time she shoots them a glare and attempts a tiny little fireball to send their way.

Her fingertips flare for a moment and then extinguish but she doesn’t even care. The look of horror on their faces, the open fear, makes her smile and she giggles and wiggles her fingers again.

The little bursts of magic bring in templars from the hall. Three watch her from a safe distance. Her maniacal laughter brings the children running and she’s showing off her relearned talents to Gwenaella much to the girl’s amusement. Gwenaella climbs into her lap and Solona holds her tight as though the girl is the only lifeline left in this vast and terrifying tower.

It doesn’t matter, not right now, what has happened to her in the past. She is drugged up on the elfroot they’ve given her for the pain and her magic is back. The world floats by in happy moments.


	19. Looking Inside

_Chapter Nineteen_

She spends a week in her bed. The world passing around her is the only small amount of amusement that she finds between the constant pains that she shifts to avoid and the gradually declining doses of medication that makes her brain work not so well.

The six full mages, all of them, live in this one room now and she’s surprised to find that the man behind all of the obnoxious snoring is Van Lowe. She spends hours, awake with her ceaseless moving, testing out her returned abilities by sending small bits of shock over to his bunk across the room to wake him every time another torrent of noise comes out of his mouth. She is coming to grips with the control needed and the templars don’t even sense her bending of the Veil for these moments of hilarity.

It is on the seventh day that she tries to walk. There has been no nursemaid to keep her abed other than her own limitations, which she’s coming to know so well, so it is without a doubt a poor choice to attempt this feat of strength while the room is empty for late day lessons.

Bare feet swing over the edge of her mattress and she takes a moment to steady her spinning head at the sudden movement. It passes and she breathes deeply. Her hands give her balance as they grasp the bunk above her and she’s rising, finally. On shaking legs she is finally vertical. Swaying, a tentative set of toes pushes forward and she feels her weight shift.

It is too much; _too much_ for her tired body and her cry is sharp as she falls to the flagstones beneath her. The ground is no welcoming soft landing and she can hear the crack of her elbow, her hips, and her shoulder as she lands like a sack of potatoes. “Balls!” The curse echoes in the empty room and she props herself up on an aching funny bone. _Not so blasted bloody funny at all._

In the hallway, she hears the clank of armor and looks up in time to see a templar baring down on her. Her only thought is to recoil from the shining fiend but she isn’t fast enough, not yet, to evade the strong hands that grasp her upper arms and pull her back to her bed.

“What in the blazes do you think you’re doing, mage?” The voice is not Cullen’s and she isn’t sure whether this is the most disappointing thing she’s heard all week, or the most relieving. “Are you trying to break some bones to go with that _still healing_ gaping chest wound? You are far too clumsy in this weakened state.” This second sentence wakes up something distant in her memory, some moment she’s set aside as _terrifying_ because the voice belongs to her least favorite templar. Ser Emic.

Now she truly tries to escape. Her hands are weak but insistent as they push at the chest plate in front of her. “Please, leave me alone. Don’t hurt me.”

The helm quirks to one side; those hateful eyes of his stare out at her and it makes her shiver. But, the templar takes a step back. And then another. And one more. He is far enough away now that she doesn’t feel so frightened when his gauntlets rise. It is her turn to quirk her head as he removes his helm and holds it under one arm.

The face is Ser Emic’s. It is the same short hair, peppered with gray. The same nose and chin and mouth that she’s spent years memorizing in order to avoid. But the eyes. They are certainly not the same. They do not radiate hatred, only concern. She feels nauseous and confused; this man looks like her ‘arch-nemesis’ but he clearly isn’t. A brother? A twin? Her brain spins with the possibility. “Who are you?”

The man smiles at her and shifts his weight, standing at attention. “Ser Etic, at your service, Enchanter Amell. I’ve been assigned to watch over you while you heal.”

Solona doesn’t know what surprises her more, the use of her title or the realization she’s got a watch dog now. Neither of these things should surprise her but honestly, she hadn’t been an Enchanter for more than a week before she’d been shipped off to Ostagar and Petra declines such titles. The watch dog thing, too, should be unsurprising. Off course someone is always watching her.

The disdain must show clearly in her face because Etic is clearing his throat and smiling, still. “Allow me to clarify.” He waits for her slow nod before fetching a chair and pulling it up next to her bed. “After Ser Cullen’s outburst it was considered prudent to keep the men who were at the epicenter of the maleficar outbreak to themselves for a while longer. Knight Commander Greagoir requested more templars be sent, older and more well trained templars, from Chantries in the region.” Her own head quirks in question; the non-verbal clue for him to continue draws a smile. “I’ve spent the last thirty years in Amaranthine. I tired of dirty sailors and was happy when I received the summons.”

“But- “ She’s having hard time voicing all of the many questions she’s struck with. One thought is louder than the rest. “Wait- Cullen’s outburst?”

Ser Etic nodded sadly. “Yes. It appears the time he spent in his magical cell did more damage than Knight Commander Greagoir had initially thought. Ser Cullen has been confined to a solitary room and is under constant observation.”

It is impossible for Solona not to think about the cell she’d been in for the first two years of her life in the Circle. _Under Observation_. The idea that Cullen is there, in a place like that, and alone makes her want to cry. Ser Etic sees her distress and attempts to console her with a hand on her shoulder. The metal is cold on her skin yet she doesn’t jerk away. “Knight Commander Greagoir told me about the two of you.”

She flushes red and her eyes flash to his face. “He wanted me to know the full ramifications of Cullen’s incarceration under Uldred and the subsequent attack last week.” Her gaze flash to her lap where her hands sit folded on her lap. No one was supposed to ever know about her and Cullen and yet here is one more person. First Marian and then Anders and probably the entirety of the circle by now. She sighs. She really never should have come back. “Young men and women can rarely control who they have feelings for, Enchanter Solona. It will get easier, though, once you both grow older. I promise.” There’s a twinkle of certainty in the older templar’s eyes.

She doesn’t want anything to get easier, not if it means she stops feeling. Faced with the insurmountable task of Cullen’s current mental state she thinks maybe feelings are overrated anyway.

“Did your fall hurt?” She’s snapped from her musings by Etic’s voice and she catalogues the aches in her body for a moment before shaking her head. “Well then. How about you try once more, this time with a little help?”

She swears he has kindness and compassion in his voice and it’s hard for her to equate that sort of care with a templar other than Cullen but she lets him help her off the bed and voices no complaints as his hands at her shoulders keeps her steady and upright.

_~!~_

She is set to work not two days after her eventual escape from bed rest. Solona spends long hours in the library; there are more books off the shelves than on and it seems she has the best grasp of where everything belongs. Well, aside from Flora. She finally has a chance to meet the First Enchanter’s Apprentice her first day on the job.

He starts out with a bow and then a wave of his hand. Along with these gestures he presents his full name. Florian Phineas Horatio Aldebrant, Esquire. Could she please not call him Flora? He has so many other names to choose from.

Solona is at first wary of his no nonsense attitude but warms quickly to his gruff yet humorous approach to all things language. He is primarily interested in ancient elvhan. When she mentions that she finds the dwarven language and culture fascinating they lose an afternoon comparing their two passions. When it’s time for dinner she sits right next to him despite the plaintiff looks that Petra shoots her way from between Talma and Rinnoa. Petra must wait, Solona thinks. She’s discussing _very interesting things._

Her days go like this:

She wakes before the men are roused, if only to avoid the dirty looks Van Lowe has taken to sending her way. She’s bathed and dressed and already neck deep in scrolls by the time she feels the ripple of his energy during morning classes. Etic meets her at the door to the dorms and shadows her through the halls and stairs. He is quiet, for the most part, but is more than willing to answer questions she has.

She meets up with Flora (Finn, he keeps insisting) after Etic brings her something to eat in the morning and the two of them catalogue and arrange.

She breaks for midday meal and spends a long hour eating and socializing with the young ones. Gwenella takes this time to chatter at her in Orlesian and Solona does her best to slowly acclimate the girl to speaking Fereldan. For the first weeks the other kids seemed jealous of the attention Gwenella was being given. There were a few hair pulling incidents and tear stains on both her robes and Petra’s.

She starts teaching the other kids Orlesian (Greagoir _hates_ it and insists that only Fereldan or Arcanum be spoken in his presence) and soon the entire table is hurling foreign insults. Flora ( _Finn_ ) teaches a few elven words and suddenly the entire lot of them are singing bawdy songs from the forests while the Templars stare disapprovingly.

Lunch ends with the stiff march of armored feet and the entire magic using community is escorted back to classrooms. The rooms are clean now. Cleanish, at any rate. Solona has her own class where she relearns her fire talents while the young mages watch with wonder. There is a particular hectic instance where she’d attempted an inferno in the courtyard with the kids watching from a window.

Everything had been going well. Better than well. Fantastically and she was reveling in the scorched earth and the heat on her face. All it took was a happy giggle; a Templar hearing the wrong sort of noise. She’d been on her ass and drained of mana before Etic had a chance to say _No! Everything is fine here!_

She eats dinner alone. In the library. Very close to the quiet corner she’d visited first with Shuul and then with Cullen. And she tries very _very_ hard not to think about either. She has not seen Cullen since he drove his sword through her abdomen and she doesn’t think she wants to.

She brushes stray thoughts out of her mind the same way she brushes the dust of the stacks off her shoulders.

She visits Anders. Every night. For the past weeks she brings him food she’s nicked from the kitchen and tells him about her day. He smiles and tries to be supportive but she knows he feels empty. Empty like she used to, after Ostagar. Many nights she still wishes she’d run off with him.

These are her days and she loves every single one of them.

Even when a stray Templar finds her alone and tries to teach her a lesson. Even when Etic is too late to save her and she spends a day hiding the bruising her magic can’t quite heal. Even when the children show up to her classroom with tears in their eyes from remembered nightmares.

However, when the man who now inhabits Cullen’s body appears, finally and after almost two months of her patient waiting, and breaks her heart, she understands the full ramifications of being a templar and being a mage.


	20. Imprisonment

_Chapter Twenty_

There is a particular passage in a specific scroll that she has the worst time trying to decipher. She works late into the night, hunched over the text with candles burning to help her read. The light doesn’t help. The breaks she takes, when she paces the library floors and thinks about her lessons the next day, don’t help either.

She’s stuck on a word that will either blow open the ideas that the Chantry has on lyrium trade or will support their view completely and she can’t settle on a translation.

 _The use of lyrium is one of the worst and most effective forms of magical manipulation known to mankind. The Maker gives us the substance with which to manipulate our power. Only through the continued –_

This is where she is stopped. The next words either mean controlled dispersal or they mean that lyrium must be made available, freely.

This text is almost one thousand years old and are the words of a very well-known Chantry chronicler, written in Arcanum of all things. She doesn't know, doesn't care, how it came to be in the library of Kinloch Hold.

The ramifications are unthinkable. With a dated scroll calling for the free dispersal of lyrium the Chantry would have no way to control not only their templars but their hold on the mages within their Circles would also be free to do as they would.

This translation could bring down the whole order of her world and she is giddy with the possibility.

But these words, the double negative of the phrasing is impossible. Her Arcanum is good. But not this good. She needs an expert.

She needs Finn (no longer _Flora_ ). Or maybe-

Yes, he'll know. He has to.

She's out the door, scroll clutched tightly, yet carefully, in her hand. It trails behind her gently as she rushes down to the main entrance, and towards the kitchen. She'll fetch some food for him later, but right now she's had a break through and she thinks Anders is the perfect person to tell. He'll understand what the scroll means. He'll be over the moon.

She's grinning widely when she enters his cell area but stops dead in her tracks at the sight before her.

Two templars are laid out. There's no blood; she can still see the steady rise and fall of both chests. This is what she realizes first. Her eyes track to the empty cell. The door stands open and unharmed. There are manacles on the floor, where Anders usually sits and waits for her. He has escaped! Anders! Gone, and without her.

Four other templars are in the room.

One of them is Etic. Scratch that; two of them are Etic and one must be Emic then. She hasn't seen much of her guardian angel's twin brother (no surprise at that discovery). Here and now however two graying blond heads are bent in discussion. The other templars still have their helms on and are trying to revive their fallen brethren.

Her next thought is that she hasn't been spotted yet. She is quick to back up and almost makes it to the door, silent and so stealthy.

She runs her back squarely into an armored chest that blocks her escape and she can't help the groan of dismay that pops out.

“Enchanter Solona.” She groans again, recognizing Greagoir's voice at her ear. Of all the people to accidentally back in to while trying to sneak away from the scene of an escape in the Circle-

The four conscious templars turn and look at her. Etic, at least, looks fairly relieved to see her. “Solona! Thank goodness you're here. We've had a bit of trouble and need some healing. Could you help?” He asks this of her as though she was expected. As though she is welcome. Two sets of eyes stare out at her from helms. Greagoir nudges her forward. Emic has murder in his glare.

She steps towards the two men on the ground. Every ounce of her body is screaming _TRAP RUN TRAP ESCAPE_ and she'd make a run for it if Etic didn't look so hopeful. She has come to love this man as though he were the father she never knew. As though he were the world she is forced to live within. She will do anything he asks.

She kneels next to the two fallen templars. She’s right in her initial guess that they haven’t been harmed physically. She doesn’t know how Anders managed to subdue them but she reaches out to the first one and the cool wash of her healing magic enters the man’s body. She’s brushed up on her healing abilities in the days following her recovery. She’s got diagnosis down to an art and she’s still working on repair.

The body tells her that these two are merely asleep. A simple sleep spell, of course.

But how had Anders managed it? He’d been shackled. And this room-

Her thoughts go wild. This room was supposed to dampen any magical ability and yet she’d been able to easily draw upon the Fade. The wards in here are down. But how?

The men around her come to some sort of strange answer and they snatch her up. The two with helmets on each grab and arm and she’s protesting as they turn her towards Greagoir. She hasn’t seen him this angry since he’d stumbled upon her and Cullen.

“Enchanter Amell.” Oh _shit_. Greagoir only breaks out the last name in ridiculously serious and grave situations. “You are under arrest for assisting the apostate Anders in his latest escape attempt.” He looks beyond her, at the men restraining her. “Take her up to the fourth floor and throw her in an observation chamber.”

She remembers bars and heavy doors and _Under Observation_ means no light and a padded room. Solona struggles for all she’s worth. “What are you talking about!? I didn’t help him escape. I would never-“

“Be quiet, _mage_.” The man to her right tightens his grip and the voice is so very cold that she almost doesn’t recognize it. But there’s something in the way he draws out his a, the slight tonal pitch that she’s learned to recognize in accents. It’s a Denerim accent.

She’s staring in horror at the man. The templar. It is Cullen and he doesn’t look down as they make their way out of the room. She doesn’t have the foresight to look back at Etic, to plead with the man to make them see reason. She forgets to struggle.

Her feet drag up every stair step between the dungeons and the observation rooms by the templar quarters. She sees the familiar door up ahead and glances up at Cullen just once more. “Please, don’t do this. I had no idea.”

His voice is cold, still, when he responds. “Your words are useless. You are useless. Cease your pleas.”

She is too stunned to cry when they lock the door of her cage. She’s too broken to lie down and she spends long hours staring through the bars of the door, watching the stone wall outside and wondering what in the Fade has happened.

 __

~!~

“Where is the apostate Anders?” The fist that is slammed down on the table she sits at shakes the wood and creates a terrible racket but Solona is cool in her dismissal at this display of anger. Above her, Emic looms. Etic stands in the corner of this small room and she can see how uncomfortable he is with what’s happening.

“I have no idea.” Her gaze never wavers from Emic’s face. She is not frightened by the overbearing templar.

If anything, she is slightly annoyed and still very confused. Mostly about Cullen and that dead tone to his voice he’d had the night before.

Emic grabs the collar of her robes and pulls her halfway up. “We know you helped him. The best thing you can do is tell us where he is.” His breath smells awful and she has to break eye contact if only to lean her face away from his. He yanks her back around, still in this uncomfortable half standing position. “It’s going to end badly for the both of you if you don’t start talking.”

Surprisingly she’s still not intimidated. It could be that she’s got the truth on her side, or the fact that Etic stands off to the side. Emic can’t do a thing to her. “Where’s your proof? I’ve done nothing and I know less than that.”

“You knew the wards were down in the dungeon when you used your magic. That is guilt, right there.”

Solona scoffs. “I wasn’t thinking about it. I was shocked to discover that there was a roomful of templars instead of one sassy mage when I entered. Distracted, I believe the proper term is.”

“Why were you there at all? That area is off limits to mages.”

She opens her mouth to shoot back a scathing retort but stops herself. She had needed a second opinion. On a very controversial piece of information. That could destroy this man’s entire existence.

“I-“ she swallows and takes a deep breath, hoping her lie will be sufficient. “I was hoping he could explain a translation on a healing spell. I found a scroll he had doodled on years ago but I didn’t really understand it.”

For the first time she notices the scroll Emic had tucked into his waistband. He pulls the paper free and brandishes in her face as though it was the terribly incriminating piece of evidence he needs. “This scroll? Right here? The one that has nothing to do with healing?”

She’s wondering who blew her secret and explained the scroll’s contents when the door behind Emic opens. Her eyes round. Cullen, with Greagoir hot on his heels, enters the room. Emic lets go of her robe and she stumbles backwards into the chair. Her rear impacts with a thump and a skitter. She fights to keep her balance.

Despite the smallness of the room she is unable to hear what is whispered between all four templars when Greagoir motions Etic and Emic to him. They glance at her a few times and at the end of the Knight Commander’s instruction it is Etic who looks angry and Emic who looks smug.

Etic gives her a look. _Hold on. No matter what._

 _Come back!_ she thinks. _Don’t abandon me!_

She is left alone in the room with Cullen. Her heart seizes in her chest when he comes to sit on the other side of the table from her. He is without his helmet and his hands fold neatly on the wood as he looks her over. She’s probably a sad sight. Her robe is in disarray from the rough handling of Emic and her hair is a mess; she hadn’t slept the night before and knows there are sure to be bags under her eyes. Confinement does this to people, she knows. Creates hollow and smudged versions of normally well put together individuals.

For a brief moment she wonders what other changes Cullen might find on her face over the months they’ve been away from each other. Does he see the horrors of Ostagar in the way she frowns all the time, ever so slightly? Or perhaps he’s seen the scratches on her palms; her long healed war wounds will never fade completely.

She is unnerved by his silence and breaks it if only to break his stern overview. “How are you feeling?”

She gets no response. In truth she’s not sure she wants one. Whatever the templars, whatever Greagoir, has done to Cullen in the months since she’s seen him it has apparently destroyed any emotion he might have held. Not once does his face shift from anything other than impartial.

Even when he begins the questions.

It lasts for hours she imagines. Why was she in the dungeons? Why was she in contact with Anders in the first place? Why was she carrying a scroll that should have been in the First Enchanter’s personal library? Why did she need to ask Anders about that scroll?

And above all, where was the apostate Anders?

She finds herself answering everything truthfully; Cullen does this to her even as he is slowly becoming a stranger right in front of her. She spills the truth about the scroll and admits that she’s been sneaking Anders food for his entire stay in the cell. She even mentions that the scroll had bested her and she needed to ask for help.

At this point his face screws up in disbelief. “ _You_ had to ask for help? You are, Enchanter Amell, one of the smartest mages in the Tower. Why would you need another’s help, especially for something as benign as a translation?”

She explains the nature of the scroll again and her desire to decipher it perfectly. While she talks his face falls back to blank and she thinks about his words. He calls her smart. He still thinks of her. Maybe the man that she is still, pretty much, head over heels in love with is inside this shell of a templar. Somewhere.

He is not satisfied with her answers. Where is _Anders?_

He repeats his question. And again.

 _Where?_

“I _DON’T_ know! I swear Cullen. I had nothing to do with his disappearance. I brought him food and talked with him but he never mentioned anything about an escape.” She grabs at his hand, hoping to make her point.

He recoils. Half from her touch and, she realizes with dismay, from the use of his name. He stands so quickly the chair falls away behind him. “WHERE. IS. ANDERS?!”

This is the moment that she understands what’s happened to Cullen. This is where she sees that any small shred of affection or hope that he’s harbored since his entrapment at Uldred’s hands has been wiped clean.

He sneers down at her.

The face of the man that she loves looks at her as though she is the worst scum on the face of Thedas. And she cries. She can’t stop the tears. She can’t be strong and resist this. Not anymore. All hope. All hope is true and well lost. “Oh, Cullen. I am so sorry.” _For both of us._ Hiccups swallow anything else she might hope to say.

The templar sets the chair upright and turns. He bangs on the door three times, in quick succession. When the metal creaks open he slips through and she watches her heart walk away.


	21. Chapter 21

  
_Chapter Twenty One_   


It is strange to be a prisoner. Not just a kept mage but a legitimate and well ridiculed prisoner in the Circle Tower. They set her up in the cell Anders used to occupy. The metal is new and shiny and she is suffocating when they shove her through the room.

Once more her abilities are dulled and gone, lost at the edge of a thought. She sees two guards at all times and she thinks there’s a few more that stand out of sight. Just to the outside. Watching.

Cullen is never one of these guards.

She’s glad, really. Really _really_ glad on a level that frightens her. Her smart and shy young man has been destroyed and the man that stands in his place is a very poor substitute for the real thing.

Solona burns through _hours_ just thinking about what sort of life the two of them would have had if they’d been fortunate enough not to become mages and templars. How many happy, fat children would they have by now? What sort of scholar would she be and what would Cullen look like covered in dirt and sweat but still smiling sweetly for her when he returned from the field?

She shelves these day dreams only when she has visitors.

They are few. Irving, initially. He questions her ad nausea as well. She thinks he’s sure that she had no part in the escape. In a show of the true place of power in this Tower he is unable to secure her freedom.

Etic is at her door daily. Unlike others he’s actually allowed inside the cell and where before he was her watcher he is now her quasi-maid. It’s Etic that changes her sheets and brings her fresh garments and holds up a blanket so she can change with a scrap of privacy. It is Etic who brings her food and tells her that he’s looking for the person who really sprang Anders and when he does that he’ll be able to set her free.

She wonders at his dedication. As his charge, she wants for nothing other than her freedom.

Petra comes by after the first few days. She asks if Solona would like to see the kids; if it would cheer Solona up Petra would fetch them right at that moment. “Absolutely not. Tell them I’m sick. I’ll see them soon at any rate.”

When she is alone save for the guards around her she materializes each of these wishes for her life and lays them out in her mind.

The first is always that kiss. That moment in the library that was so cruelly interrupted by Greagoir. She always imagines that they found a bed somewhere. Perhaps the one she’d had for those few short days right before Ostagar. Her own room and a templar of her own too.

In her dreams he’s always slim yet extremely well-muscled. Lithe, she thinks. He knows that she’s extremely ticklish behind her knees and she melts when he presses kisses behind her ear. She shivers in these moments and curls in tighter on herself. In her cell she floats away from the reality of her captivity.

She finds him in the halls during a particularly vivid encounter. She’s fresh from bed; she needs a little late night reading material. She’s slipping into the darkened library when his grip around her upper arms and he pulls her close. At her back his body is solid; his arms slide to her front and she is wrapped in his embrace.

Always he bends and whispers little nothings into her ear. _I missed you. I love you._

I’m going to take you away.

His hands dip lower and press. She turns her face to his; her lips brush the edge of his jaw and her mouth opens with a gasp. His fingers are nubile as they part the folds of her robe. She feels the warmth of his touch and arches into it. _It has been so long_ she thinks.

On her cold and unwelcoming mattress she brushes over herself. She is fully clothed and miserable yet these thoughts keep her warm during the long nights. She rolls over, her back to her guards, and falls back into her thoughts.

They are in her room. Her real and proper room on the third floor. There is a door and she is pressed against it; one of his legs rests heavily between hers. Her hands are pinned above her head and she pushes up against him.

Cullen is devious with his mouth. He starts behind her ear, picking up where they left off in the hall. Those lips she’s spent _years_ dreaming about trail to the place where her neck meets her shoulder and she feels him nibbling there. A tongue is swirled across that delicate skin.

The pressure on her core shifts and she is suddenly filled with the most delicious sensation. It is wet and slick; it’s slightly uncomfortable actually yet she knows that this is right. She is dripping with the want of him. And he should know. She rocks her hips forward, her own thigh pushing against his already forming erection.

Cullen gasps. The sound sends shivers down her body; the hair of her arms is standing on end when she takes advantage of his momentary distraction. Her wrist turns over and she snags his arm. Grabs hold and pulls it down. Down her body and back to the place where he’d been so eager to explore earlier in this fantasy.

She wears no robes now. Nothing to part and delve within. Simply her skin against the cloth of his breeches.

When he slips a finger inside of her, meeting no resistance, she screams his name and holds tight.

They are on the bed and he is braced over her. Strong arms frame her peripheral view and his smile brackets the world above her. Her legs are wrapped tight around his waist. When he pushes inside of her his eyes widen and she feels the stretch that is Cullen. Her body accepts this new fullness and she has to throw her head back. Her throat is bared; she is at the mercy of his mouth once more.

Cullen begins to move.

She curls in tighter on herself. Hands clenched fast between her thighs she tries as hard as she can not to cry. She starts to shake from the effort.

When she gives up and sprawls on her back the guards don’t even look at her. They ignore her tears and her sorrow. They’ll tell stories in the morning: that crazy broken mage is diddling herself and then crying about it. Maybe she’s sad her lover left her behind; it was awfully mean of Anders to just ditch her here.

_Wasn’t it?_

  
_~!~_   


 

By the end of the fourth month in the dungeon she’s learned all of her jailors’ names and their favorite songs. The songs thing was pretty hit or miss; she sang everything she knew and when they complained she sang even louder. When they enjoyed a tune and sometimes hummed along quietly she muddled the words and the melodies making them unenjoyably. Her little revolt behind bars; musical warfare.

She finds out that Cullen has left the Tower and this is when the dreams stop, abruptly. She hears from a guard who heard from the cook who overheard Greagoir that Cullen has been shipped off to Denerim. _For training_. The gossiping templar sneers and makes a fancy hand gesture that Solona imagines is the male symbol for touching oneself.

The both of them look back at her after that and laugh. Her face burns and she tries to slide down within her clothing. If she could get her head into her robes she could _disappear_.

There isn’t enough fabric in Thedas that could disguise her embarrassment though and the men know it. There’s a long discussion that follows about the sorts of training templars could get up to in the Capital. Most of it she can tune out but when one chortles about the games that are played at a brothel (The Templar and the Apostate) she starts singing. She sings at the top of her lungs and changes all the words and a song about a long lost love becomes the tale of a murderous mage who escapes her cage and torments those who kept her locked up.

She’s never been a good singer.

The men yell back and throw things and finally a guard from the front door hears the racket and comes to investigate. It is just her luck that it happens to be Ser Etic and as soon as she sees him she shuts her mouth and sits down.

He takes one look at the pair of them, still jeering, and her defiant gesture before waving the others out the door. “Go guard the entrance for a bit. You’re disturbing the prisoner.”

“Oi! She’s disturbing us more with that racket!” Etic sticks a finger under this one’s nose and repeats his command. He outranks them; they beat a hasty retreat and she comes to sit by the door. He opens it and she wants to jump at him. He’d hug her and tell her everything would be all right.

But she knows now that it won’t be. It’ll never be okay again.

Etic has spent all of the days she’s been locked up telling her everything would be okay, in the end. She’d believed him.

Now he watches her for a moment before making his way to her side. There is no furniture in the cell and he sits on the ground next to her. She swears she can hear his joints creak even over the clank of his armor. “They told you about Cullen, didn’t they?”

She doesn’t face him. Her eyes are fixed on the small point of light, the only window, far on the other side of the room. It is the only source of bearings she has when it comes to day and night. It has counted out the mornings, noons, and nights for her for weeks. Months. Years it seems. She stares it down, hoping it would hold more meaning.

“He left a few weeks ago. Greagoir is sending him to train as a mage hunter at his request.” This is surprising. She processes for a moment and blinks away the curiosity. Cullen, her Cullen, is dead.

“The end is near for the war. Either the Wardens will raise their army or we’ll all be gone. Dead or hiding out farther North. The Knight Commander wants Cullen as far away from the fighting as possible.” Here he pauses at length. She holds her breath and waits for the next words. “I have no idea why, not really, but I imagine he feels bad for the lad.”

And now Etic is the one that reaches out and pulls close. He is sitting next to her yet when his arm comes around her shoulders he tugs and she sprawls over his lap. There is nothing sexual about this embrace and she winds her arms around his neck. His armor is cold against her face.

“He hasn’t been right. Not since Greagoir finished- “

“Finished what?” Her eyes are stuck on Etic’s face now.

His own are sad as he looks down and shakes his head. “Never you mind. Just know that he’ll be safe, wherever he ends up. And so will you. I promise.”

It is the last time she allows anyone to instill any sort of comfort into her soul for a very long while.


	22. Chapter Twenty Two

It is a stroke of luck and a thoughtlessly _(auspiciously)_ big mouth that finally sets her free.

She has been in this cell for almost six months by the time one of the original guards, the ones that had been found asleep the night of Anders’ escape, lets it slip to a friend that he might have _accidentally_ dropped his keys by the cell.

When the heavy door of her cage swings open this is what Greagoir tells her. As he loosens the shackles that have scarred the skin of her wrists he lets her know that he’s not sorry. He was doing his job.

She lost the will to fight back weeks ago and she doesn’t even have the desire to feel angry about her treatment. 

He doesn’t even have the audacity to escort her out of the dungeons. He turns back to his men, lecturing and thanking them for their extended duty and she’s left to stare at his back. Dumfounded. 

It is Petra who collects her. Petra tuts over the state of her robes; why hadn’t Solona allowed Petra to bring some fresh clothing? Solona only shrugs and allows the other woman to lead her up and away. Out. They pass by the door to the kitchen and the scent of freshly baked bread pulls her attention to her surroundings. The wards on the walls had kept most sound and smells out. Only the most pungent stews and loudest yelling have penetrated the dungeon.

Solona hasn’t actually smelled fresh food in months. 

“I . . . I need something to eat.” Petra nods and waits, patiently, as Solona creeps into the kitchen and snags a cooling loaf of bread before the cooks and the baker can spy her. She’s fast, still. Fast and stealthy. Even after her extended captivity.

She thinks it is desperation that makes her this way.

Despair has created within her this burning desire to disappear into the stones of the tower. So many times she had tried, locked in that cell and alone. To just melt away would have made her happier than she could have ever imagined.

The staircase up to the main floor is empty as is the entryway. There are no guards. From somewhere deeper into the Tower comes a giggle. She stops in her tracks and grips her bread tight to her chest. She hasn’t even taken a bite yet. She doesn’t want to lose it. Doesn’t want to share it-

“The kids missed you.” Petra sounds hopeful. Her voice has retained that magical whimsy Solona remembers.

She wants to be happy that someone noted her absence. The sunlight streaming in through the tall windows in the apprentice quarter seizes a part of her long forgotten and she knows at that moment what she needs.

_Air._

She needs to get out.

Her feet fly across the stones of the Tower floor. She passes familiar faces. Etic, maybe Emic she can’t really tell, raises a hand as she rushes past and she twists away from that metal grip. Away. Past, she moves to the only door a mage in this place can use freely to leave the building.

The courtyard explodes in front of her in color and light and smells and _air_. The breeze off the lake kicks her hair up and around her face. She squints; this is intense. Far too intense. She half-turns to go back inside yet stops herself. Forces herself to turn around and walk farther into the greenery.

She’d weathered the worst of the winter and the beginning of the spring in solitary. The world around her is fresh and new.

Taking the path closest to her she winds her way down to a bench she remembers from before. She has actually memorized this little section of the gardens. Her feet kick out into the small clearing when she sits and she pushes off her shoes at her heels. The shoes are dirty and the grass feels so good beneath her feet. Across this small island of green stands an old apple tree. It is mostly past its days of producing significant quantities of fruit yet it blooms beautifully in front of her now.

The white and pink blossoms are picked up by another gust of wind and she is showered in petals.

This is the bench where Irving gave his decree that she would go to Ostagar and fight to save the world. It has been less than a year and yet feels as though she has lived four lifetimes between that moment and this one.

She is at a loss; there is no clear direction for her to journey and it should be maddening to her. Six months ago she railed against her incarceration. Somewhere between then and now, she couldn’t even place the exact time, she gave up.

She watches those apple blossoms float to the ground and imagines herself as one of them. Blown loose from her life. She shifts on the bench and slides to the ground. Her left hand is still grasping that stolen loaf of bread while her right reaches out and brushes through the blossoms on the ground.

The blossoms shift through her finger and she breathes deeply. She notes that her finger nails are encrusted with filth and her skin is soiled and some of the petals actually come away brown. She is dirty. A dirty mage. She feels like she should hate herself for being this way. She could right so many of the wrongs in her life if only she’d been born without magic. 

Solona doesn’t know what makes her angrier: the realization that these thoughts are making her want to cry because they’re true or the realization that they are not even her thoughts to begin with.

Cruel eyes stared into her thoughts when she slept some nights. She hasn’t had a pleasant night’s rest in two months. She sees accusation and anger and disgust when she sleeps. And it is always _his_ voice at the back of her mind: _you are worthless_.

These are not her thoughts.

Her hand clenches, blossoms caught up in her angry grip and she lets that displeasure and sorrow flow through her. She lets go and her hand is engulfed in flame immediately. 

She has forgotten twice now the feeling of her own magic functioning fully. She opens her fingers and a fireball springs forth. She doesn’t send it anywhere but lets it sit in the palm of her hand. She watches, head tipped to the side and body askew, as the flame dances around her skin and a sad smile graces her lips.

She is not useless. 

She has saved lives. 

She could have almost saved Ostagar.

Were the Wardens to appear right then she would gladly sacrifice her life to them so that she could finish what she started almost a year ago.

She will _never_ be useless.

Solona extinguishes the fireball and lets her right hand fall back to the ground while the left brings the loaf of bread to her mouth. It has cooled and she bites into it eagerly. All the while her eyes track across the blue expanse of sky and she watches the passage of the sun take her into the late afternoon on this, the first day of her second freedom.

_If I were a braver woman-  
I would have taken Cullen with me when I went to Ostagar. _

A bird lands on the apple tree and Solona watches it clean its feathers before taking off again.

 _If I were a stronger mage-  
I would have saved everyone at Ostagar and ended a Blight. _

The air grows colder and she hears the Keep move about. After hearing nothing from the walls aside from the harshest screams for so long she swears she can hear the old stone talking to her. Doors are opened, armor marches, a giggle floats down from one of the higher floors.

_If I were a better friend-  
I would have never let Anders return to this place. _

She doesn’t _really_ remember her mother, but she remembers enough. She remembers her mother’s games and laughter and smiles and her mother would have made a game of this whole ordeal. She would have drawn on the stones of their cage and made a mural out of it. They would have spent six months hopping around that damned cell creating rules as they went and talking about what sort of prize would be fitting for their victory.

_If I were a better person I would have never been born a mage in the first place._

She tightens her fists and closes her eyes. She’s slowly starting to realize that she’s been horribly wronged. Her entire life she’s been thrown about and sent to prisons of all sorts. And it has never been her fault.

This is the moment Solona Amell realizes she can no longer accept this treatment. 

She considers blowing up the Circle.

This is a huge idea and it shocks her when she thinks of it. Her eyes snap open and she looks over at the building. She can still hear some light laughter. She imagines it blown to bits, just a tower of fire and anger. 

She can almost see the flames framed against the bright blue sky. 

She shakes the thought away. She could never destroy this place. Prison though it may be, it’s the only home she knows.

Then she could kill the templars and take the Circle for the mages. Just the mages. If they snuck up on the templars at night and separated them . . . She’s remembering planning sessions from Ostagar she’d heard once around campfires. Divide and conquer. 

More templars would come, though; enough to overrun their little island.

Maybe Cullen. Perhaps Cullen would come back and run her through again. She thinks her death would be worth it if only to see him again.

It is only a moment of weakness and she realizes her solution. She has one of the best libraries in the whole of Thedas to look through and a sharp mind. She’s got more theories about the origin of species than anyone else she knows. Or read. And she almost solved that scroll.

That one that she wanted to ask Anders about.

The one that will bring the Chantry crashing down to its foundations.

This is the moment that she realizes her goal. She will find the evidence she needs to prove the Chantry wrong. She will bring down her oppressors.

In her grassy clearing Solona smiles as the sun goes down and she stays on her back, staring at the night sky, until she falls asleep.


End file.
